


until death do us part

by Yireum



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childhood Friends, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Reincarnation, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27525889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yireum/pseuds/Yireum
Summary: At sixteen, Harry died on his first date with Tom. Three years later, he wakes up from a coma in a different body, discovering he has loving parents and that magic is real. As he struggles to let go of his past, Tom reappears bitter and hurt, making him fall in love again. AU.(the magic in the air is more than just love.)
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Harry Potter
Comments: 70
Kudos: 344





	1. 01

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the world and magic system will be different in this compared to canon!! along with timelines being shifted for tom to be a year older than harry. (〃▽〃) i'll be expanding on it slowly instead of doing an info dump at the start, so i hope this isn't too overwhelming already!! i've wanted to do a reincarnation/body swap story for a while, and it was only i met someone with the surname potheur that this got created sdglkdjhdh
> 
>  **warnings** for: harry being in a car crash and dying.

_Harry Potter © J. K. Rowling_

Harry could barely stand still.

He compromised by wandering over to the swings, making sure to take the seat to the left that would be more in view. It didn't matter that it was sweltering hot and any time he brushed his arm against the chains he flinched, nor that he was sweating from being out in the sun without any shade.

The neighbourhood park was rarely ever busy any more.

A lot of the kids had grown up, leaving him as one of the youngest.

He was pretty sure a baby had moved in next door, though. The crying that came through sounded different to someone older.

As he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, a voice came up behind him. “Harry.”

Harry jumped to his feet, startled. “What— _Tom_!”

Tom smiled, unapologetic. “You look like you're dying.”

“I feel it,” he muttered, holding a hand over his fast-beating heart. “What if—what if I didn't know that it was you?”

“You would've heard anyone else's footsteps,” Tom replied matter-of-factly. “What are you doing out in the sun?”

He felt a bit shy. “Waiting for you.”

“You could've waited for me under a tree,” was the response to that, combined with raised eyebrows. “Your face is red. You haven't caught heat stroke, have you?”

“I—no,” he stuttered out, touching a hand to his face. It didn't help that all of his body felt hot, so there was no difference in temperature. “I thought it would be better to be out in the open?”

Tom sighed. “It's no good if you faint as soon as I get here.”

“Sorry,” Harry blurted, scratching his cheek. “I just—you know I don't think things through all the time. I wanted you to see me.”

Tom reached out, taking Harry's hand away from his face as he stated, “I'm not looking anywhere else but at you.”

Harry swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Tom confirmed, holding his hand and linking their fingers as though it was something they did all the time. “Where's your family?”

“Visiting some aunt,” he admitted with a smile. “They won't be back until late, so I've been locked out until they return.”

Tom's expression became tight. “Right.”

“It's okay,” he said, trying to placate him. “I'm used to it, remember? This is nothing—”

“Spare me the reassurances, Harry,” Tom interrupted, looking at him with a frown. “I don't want to hear how it's fine that they neglect you.”

He shifted on the spot. “What do you want me to say, then?”

“Tell me what I missed,” Tom demanded, squeezing his hand in a way that made Harry overly conscious of how sweaty he was because of the weather. It didn't seem as though Tom was suffering to the same amount; his hair wasn't sticking to his skin, and there was no sheen was sweat to his face. “You look like you've lost weight. Have they not been feeding you?”

It sounded petulant to his own ears as he muttered, “I thought you didn't want to hear it.”

“Harry,” Tom said, his tone almost stern as he traced the mole on the back of Harry's hand with his thumb. “I want to know, not to hear you make excuses for them.”

“I'm not being hit again, that's enough,” he blurted.

Tom's hand tightened around his. “That's not—”

“They're a good family,” Harry reaffirmed, not averting his eyes from Tom's gaze. He was trying to stand strong on that point. “I'm not—they're not going to send me back, okay? I've been with them enough years to know that now.”

Tom opened his mouth to say something before shutting it, expression looking like he'd swallowed something bitter.

“What about you, posh boy?” Harry questioned, attempting to lighten the mood. “You've grown again.”

Tom's voice was quiet. “And you haven't.”

“Eh.” Harry shrugged. “It might be genetics at this point. Not like I'd ever know, right?”

“You can't just—”

“What?” he asked. “Joke about my parents being dead? I can and will, thank you.”

Tom breathed out audibly. “You're so... strange.”

“I think that's why you keep coming back to me,” Harry mused, getting the courage to swing their intertwined hands between them, feeling childish. “You could have it all travelling during the summer with your fancy friends, but you're here.”

There was something about Tom's gaze as he said, “I want to see you.”

Harry's face felt hot. “Well, yeah. That's why you're here.”

There was another moment where Tom struggled to choose the right words to say, shutting his mouth and pursing his lips before he came out with a gentle, “Harry.”

“Yeah?” he questioned, looking at him with a smile.

Tom swallowed.

“What?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “You're making me nervous now. Come on, out with it.”

“After next year... I'll be finished with school,” Tom eventually got out, talking ever-so-quietly. It was strange to see when he was usually so confident with his words. “And I'll be able to move out.”

He tutted. “Okay, show off.”

“I'm not trying to rub it in,” Tom denied, sounding a bit frustrated. “I want you to live with me.”

Harry blinked.

“I'm serious,” Tom insisted before he could get a word in, adjusting their linked hands. “I don't want you to stay with that family any more than you have to.”

It was in a whisper that he replied, “I can't leave until I'm eighteen.”

“I know,” Tom murmured. “If you agree to live with me, you won't have to worry about anything else. I'm not offering this to you because I feel sorry for you.”

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. “It's not pity that you're asking me to live with you?”

“This isn't me acting on a whim,” Tom insisted, using his free hand to brush his short hair away from his face, ruining the wavy curls that he liked to have styled neatly. “I have enough money to live alone. I'm asking for you to be my room-mate because you're the only one I trust to be so close to me.”

Harry quipped, “That's pretty rude to your friends you see all year at school, isn't it?”

Tom didn't hesitate to say, “They aren't you.”

It made his face feel hot. “Tom—”

“Think about it, if you must,” Tom demanded, interrupting him while not breaking eye contact. It was his expression that convinced him he was serious. “I don't care if you only stay there between classes at university—or not, if that's not your plan any more. Whatever you want to pursue, stay with me.”

Letting go of his hand, Harry shoved his into the pockets of his shorts. “I'm younger than you.”

Tom wasn't pleased with that response. “Do you think I care about that?”

“You should,” he said, scuffing his shoe on the floor. “You—you'll be out of that school next year and will never have to return here for the summer. You hate it.”

“I don't hate you,” Tom replied, honest.

He looked down at his shoes, cheeks aflame. “You're going to leave me.”

“I'm going to leave unless you stop being so stupid,” Tom chastised, crossing his arms. “You can visit me next summer to get out of here.”

His smile didn't reach his eyes. “And how am I going to pay for that?”

“I will,” Tom corrected. “You're not wasting any of your savings while I'm around. You can make up for it by keeping me company.”

“Call me a call boy, why don't you?” he muttered.

Tom snorted. “You're underaged.”

“Sixteen means I'm legal,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

Tom reached out and flicked the end of his nose. “You look like a child.”

“From my years of being malnourished, of course,” Harry replied, touching his nose with a frown. It wasn't running because of hay fever, thankfully. “I get free stuff from being polite and looking at people with big eyes, so I can't complain too much.”

Tom looked disgusted. “Begging.”

“It's not begging if I never say anything!” he exclaimed, laughing. “There are some nice people in the world, Tom. I'm sorry you've never met them.”

Tom helpfully pointed out, “You're nice.”

“Am I?” Harry questioned. “If I'm so nice, why am I keeping you out under the sun? You're going to catch a tan and ruin your ice queen image soon.”

With that, Tom grabbed his hand again, dragging down the road to a cornershop. After Tom bought them both ice lollies, rejecting Harry's coins that he had stuffed in his pocket, they wandered back down the street to a shaded area. There wasn't a lot for the village to offer; the parks were rundown, the shops were limited, and the main attraction was the large supermarket that was the only one around.

And yet, Tom came back to the countryside every year during the summer since his parents wanted to spend their break somewhere peaceful. It was a strange choice when they were so well off that they could've gone abroad.

Harry wasn't going to complain too much when it meant that they could see each other.

Summers were the best time, even if the heat seemed to get worse every time it came around.

Tom was the one that was smart enough to get out a bottle of sunscreen to put on their faces and exposed skin.

Harry blushed when Tom rubbed it onto his arms for him, squirming awkwardly at the contact.

Tom was a lot more touchy than he'd ever been before.

He didn't know whether it was because of all their time apart.

“So, you're graduating next year,” Harry stared, his back against the grass as he looked up at the sky through the branches above. The large trees seemed less impressive every time he saw them. “Is the plan to pack up your stuff and run away, or—”

“Don't be stupid,” Tom interrupted with an unimpressed look. “My parents would put out a missing person's report if I did that. No, it's entirely with their support. As long as I promise to visit every month, they're happy for me to leave.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“It's not like it'll be that different,” Tom mused, sitting up and bringing one knee up to his chest, resting his elbow on it so he could put his cheek against his hand and look at him with a smile. “I'm with them for... two months a year? I don't come back for Christmas.”

He muttered, “I know you don't.”

“Harry,” Tom said, saying his name in that soft way that made him smile. “You don't have to sulk. I'm here, aren't I?”

“How long?” he asked.

“Until the start of September.”

“You're—” Harry sat up quickly, turning his head fast enough to make his hair move. “That means you're—”

“Here for your birthday? Yes,” Tom confirmed with a smile.

His returning smile was wide.

Summer was the best time.

His family barely paid attention to him, too busy with the children that were biologically theirs. Harry was used to being a second thought. Through the years living there, it didn't compare to the horrible conditions he'd been in with families in the past, so he had no reason to complain.

Tom was another matter, though. It seemed that any time Harry opened up about his past, Tom was angry for the way he was treated, fuming and wanting to punch something, only just stopping himself because he wanted to vent his anger in healthier ways.

Harry needed to do that, too.

It was rare for him to be angry any more—there wasn't a lot to complain about. He had a bedroom he shared, was provided food, and the sweltering heat of the summer seemed like nothing when Tom was there by his side until sun down.

They spent as much time as they could together.

There was a lot of hand-holding that summer.

Harry started to feel less embarrassed about it. By the second week, he was the one taking Tom's hand when they started walking somewhere else, wandering through the woods and arriving at Harry's favourite tree to climb.

When there wasn't much in the village, they had to make do.

There used to be a swing there hanging from the branch, but the rope had long since broken. Harry still liked climbing the tree and sitting up there where the swing had once been attached to.

Tom wasn't good with heights.

Harry snickered. “Is this your weakness?”

“Are you making fun of me?” Tom demanded.

“A bit,” he admitted, letting out a laugh at Tom's frustrated expression. “It's nice to know that you're not good at everything! It makes me feel better.”

Tom crossed his arms. “You're ridiculous.”

“I'm looking down on you right now,” Harry teased, kicking his legs.

After a moment of staring at each other, Tom crouched down to pick up a rock before holding it up threateningly.

“You wouldn't,” he said.

Tom pulled his arm back.

“Try me,” Harry goaded.

The shot missed, not making it high enough to even be beside him. It landed in a nearby push, startling the wildlife in the trees and causing some birds to fly away.

Harry laughed loudly.

There was something so nice about being with him. It was the downtime between school where Harry didn't have to worry about his grades, could spend his free time in the sun comfortably by Tom's side, forgetting about the loneliness he felt all throughout the year.

With Tom, it was warm.

When they were sat side-by-side on the grass, Harry leaned into him, resting his head on Tom's shoulder. Unlike when they were younger, Tom wasn't pushing him away.

Instead, Tom wrapped an arm around his shoulder, bringing him closer.

Harry turned his head to try and hide his smile in Tom's chest.

From the laughter that he could hear—and feel—it seemed he wasn't successful.

It wasn't a bad thing.

“Harry,” Tom murmured, running his fingers through Harry's hair and pushing the thin locks away from his face. “You're not being teased for your hair any more, are you?”

He managed to keep a straight face as he asked, “You mean because I don't have eyebrows?”

“You have eyebrows,” Tom corrected with a scowl. “They're blond.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said, laughing. “I've come to terms that I look like the worst type of bleach blond. It helps that some people have started to bleach their eyebrows now. I think it's a trend.”

“You've never been trendy,” Tom bluntly told him.

He sniffed. “It's not my fault I can't afford nice clothes.”

“You can't afford anything,” Tom muttered.

“You sound like you want me to punch you,” Harry threatened without any heat, holding up a fist and shaking it playfully as he sat upright, still with Tom's arm around him. “I'll do it, don't tempt me.”

Tom laughed. “I'd rather you hit on me.”

He let his hand fall back down to his side. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I'm flirting with you,” Tom told him without showing any embarrassment from the statement. “How do you feel about that? If you say no, I might have to kill you.”

Harry cleared his throat. “We're hugging right now.”

“Yes, we are,” Tom confirmed with a nod, sounding terribly smug. “You see why I'd have to hurt you for leading me on, yes?”

“Hang on, _you_ did this—”

“Harry,” Tom interrupted, amusement clear in his tone. “I'm going to kiss you.”

There was enough time to say no; to push him away or exclaim that it was far too abrupt for such a thing to happen. For all the times that Harry had imagined it happening, it wasn't when he was sweaty with grass stains on his knees.

It helped that Tom was in a similar position.

Tom's hair wasn't neatly styled like it always was when they met up. It had become unravelled, looked soft to touch, and the slight flush to his cheeks was from the heat.

Their noses brushed before Tom gently kissed him. It was soft, a barely-there touch that when combined to the warmth of his breath had Harry's heart beating nervously in his chest. But it was Tom that it was with—Tom who would never laugh cruelly at him for messing up, even if he fumbled and did something awkward. Tom had always cheered him on, being the wise older friend despite the one year difference between them.

Harry's eyes closed as he leaned in, tilting his head up to make the angle less awkward. And as he grew more confident, he wrapped his arms around Tom's neck, returning the kiss with more enthusiasm with every passing moment where he wasn't told he was doing it wrong.

It was better than he'd hoped it would be.

Tom was holding him close, treating him like he was fragile.

It was as sweet as his kisses.

And when they parted, close enough that Harry could make out Tom's eyelashes and the mole under his right eye, the smile that spread across Tom's reddened lips was so soft that Harry felt special for it being directed at him.

It was only with him that Tom's smiles weren't overly polite and forced.

“Harry Potheur,” Tom started, cupping Harry's cheek with one hand and leaning in to brush their noses before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “I'm taking you on a date tomorrow.”

He swallowed. “You are?”

“I am,” Tom confirmed, looking him in the eyes. “Make sure to wear your best scraps, yes? I can't look like I've stolen a homeless child.”

“If I'm homeless, how did you steal me?” he muttered.

Tom laughed fondly. “Be quiet.”

“You like the stupid things that come from my mouth,” he protested.

Tom bluntly told him, “I like you.”

His face felt warm. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Tom assured him, confident in a way that Harry never thought he would be. “And I'll prove it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Harry said, his voice coming out in a whisper. “I'm looking forward to it.”

And he was. His family could tell that he was in a good mood when he came home. Harry felt like he had a skip in his step as he went about the motions, excited for the following day and what it could hold. For as long as he'd had a crush on Tom, the sudden development was still catching him off-guard.

They'd always been close, but never as touchy-feely as that summer.

He felt giddy as he got dressed in the morning.

Harry checked his appearance in the mirror, touching his bangs and trying to make them look okay before he gave up at attempting to make them do anything but stay there limply. It had always been annoying that his hair was so light-coloured and thin, let alone that his eyebrows and eyelashes matched so they weren't that visible at a distance.

Tom said he liked it.

Then again, Tom said he liked everything about him nowadays.

His cheeks felt warm as he ventured outside, adjusting his belt as he wandered further into the village. Tom had only revealed that they'd be taking the bus somewhere.

And when he saw Tom waiting across the street and fiddling with his phone, Harry sped up, rushing to the crossing and running across to be with him—

Except, he didn't make it to the other side of the road.

A car didn't stop.

-x-

Harry woke up groggy.

His body felt heavy. It was hard to open his eyelids at first, only able to twitch his fingers and wonder whether he was having a nightmare. His memory was fuzzy, too, making it hard to recall whether he'd fallen asleep under a blanket or if his hay fever had gotten even worse—

It was hard to ignore how tight his chest felt.

After what seemed like hours on end, Harry was able to sit up, touching his face with a sigh before rubbing his palms into his eyes in an attempt to wake up more.

And yet, when he opened his eyes to see his surroundings, it wasn't anywhere familiar.

It was a hospital room, that was for sure.

His throat was dry.

Harry looked around to see whether his phone was nearby. He had to call Tom and tell him that he'd be late—

“Oh,” he murmured, struck dumb with the realisation that he'd been hit by a car.

The injuries couldn't have been that bad if he didn't have any casts on, right? It wasn't as though he had much experience with injuries from a crash; the only times he'd visited a hospital before had been because of his previous family's strict rules.

Harry felt dizzy as he adjusted how he was sitting, looking around the room to see whether Tom was there.

He didn't know if it was a good sign that it was a room with only one bed in it. Did that mean that it wasn't so severe?

The detail that was nagging him was that there were fresh flowers on a vase by the window.

It seemed pointless for the hospital to supply them for every room, didn't it? And Tom knew that flowers would only make him sneeze from all the pollen. It was bad enough when they ran through the fields and he'd end up with watery eyes that weren't from laughter.

He glared at the flowers as though they had the answers.

As it turned out, it wasn't that long until someone came into the room.

Then, there was a rush of nurses and a doctor coming in at the call of another, excitedly exclaiming that he was awake and that they'd need to test that he was okay.

Harry did what he did best when there were too many people—he stayed quiet and let them talk, wanting it to be over.

“Your parents will be here soon,” the nurse assured him with a pat on the shoulder. “They'll be hurrying here right away, don't worry.”

He blinked.

The nurse smiled.

He didn't return it.

“Where's my phone?” Harry questioned.

“Your... phone,” was repeated back to him, the baffled tone only irritating him. “When did you last see your phone, Harry?”

He frowned. “Before I was run over?”

“Run over?” she echoed, still as surprised as before. “You—what do you think happened to you?”

“I was crossing the road and some asshole didn't stop,” he said, looking at her strangely. “Shouldn't you know that?”

“I—no,” the nurse stuttered out. “Harry, you've been in a coma.”

“Okay,” he accepted, taking it in stride since it all felt like an out of body experience. “No phone, then.”

After a moment of struggling to find the right words, the nurse calmly said, “Harry, you've never—”

He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

Except it wasn't straight and smooth, not so thin that it would feel greasy after a single day of washing it. It felt full, so much more hair than he was used to.

That was the first of the revelations.

It was when he really looked at his hand and noticed that the mole was gone that the panic started to set in. “What the fuck?”

There was a yell for a doctor to come in.

And Harry—

Harry was finding it hard to breathe.

When he woke up later, heavy-headed with bleary eyes, it was a doctor that explained to him calmly what had happened.

Harry zoned out being told that they hadn't thought his brain would function normally when he'd been a coma since being born.

That was—that was absurd, wasn't it? It didn't make sense, let alone match up to his memories. There was nothing made up about all the years he'd suffered through foster care, let alone the summers that he'd spent with Tom.

Thinking of Tom made him tear up.

Then, the worst part came when his parents turned up.

They were his biological ones, apparently. Harry was too numb to really process what was happening before he had a red-haired woman sobbing and holding him close, only for the nurse to try and pry her off so he wouldn't get overwhelmed.

That didn't do any good.

Harry might've fainted.

And in the following days that he spent in the private hospital room—private, because his parents had been paying for it for him for all those years since he was born—he numbly took in the information without giving much back. There was no way for him to shout that they were wrong when all that he was getting was confirmation that everything they were saying was right.

It couldn't be denied when he looked in the mirror.

Harry touched his cheek, tears welling up in his eyes.

There was nothing familiar about the face staring back at him, nor the body. He was shorter, thin in a sickly way instead of because he'd grown up being denied meals for his misbehaviour. The sharp lines of his face were terrifying; the gaunt cheekbones stood out against his pale skin, and his nose curved up and was smaller than before.

The worst was the hair.

It was black, thick and wavy in a way that was almost curls.

He wondered whether Tom's would do that if he let it go out of control.

That thought had him running to the toilet, throwing up.

There was only so much that he could absorb while in a coma—let alone if that was even confirmed. The doctors were baffled with his knowledge, not telling him everything when he let out a titbit of information that he shouldn't have, and his parents were tight-lipped when they came to visit daily.

For those times, there was a lot of staring.

Lily and James Potter.

Potter, not Potheur.

It had made him laugh until he'd cried when he first saw his name written down on his tag on his wrist.

It didn't—

None of it made sense.

For all the talking that Lily and James did, Harry stayed silent, looking at them with distrust. It had been bad enough when he'd been placed with other families in the past, but at least he'd been a child and had somewhat known what was happening in his life.

He didn't know these people.

He didn't know the person in the mirror either.

Lily was filled with watery smiles and liked to talk about the little things—her favourite topic was flowers, telling him that she was the one to replace the vase whenever the flowers started to droop. Lily had babbled about her family naming girls after flowers for generations, going as far as to say that she'd avoided having his gender tested when she was pregnant, so he'd had a flower name picked out for him.

His first words to her were, “I have hay fever.”

Lily was startled, looking at him in concern as she lifted up her hand to her trembling lip. “Honey, you—”

Harry flinched at being addressed like that.

She stopped talking abruptly, her expression crumbling as she was close to tears.

James was as emotional. He smiled a lot, though they didn't reach his eyes and looked entirely forced. His idea of trying to connect with him was to make small talk and ramble on about sports, fidgeting and adjusting his glasses more times than necessary while he spoke.

Harry didn't know what to say, so he didn't talk to him.

However, he did talk to the hospital staff. The main nurse that was assigned to him was named Alice.

She was kind and was there for him through his physiotherapy to try and make his body respond to him after being asleep for so long. His muscles were gone, legs and arms horribly thin from lack of use, and the diet he was put on was strictly monitored.

Harry realised that he wouldn't get anywhere by staying silent for long.

It was when Lily and James were in his room together, telling him about how they'd met and fallen in love, that Harry interrupted them to ask, “Can I use your phone?”

It was almost comical how quickly they grew quiet.

“I want to try something,” he explained, adjusting his blanket that was over his lap.

“I—of course, Harry,” Lily gave in, getting her phone out with a shaky hand.

It was a newer model that he hadn't seen before; bigger and one that didn't have any buttons on the front. Lily had unlocked it before passing it over, hovering by his bedside to see what he'd do.

Tom's number wasn't in use any more.

“Harry?” James questioned, voice soft as though he was talking to a stray animal. “Who did you call?”

He settled with replying, “My friend.”

“Your... friend,” Lily repeated under her breath, stunned. “When did you... meet them?”

As it wouldn't do well to make them question his sanity, he stayed silent.

It was confirmation that his memories were right that Tom's number existed, wasn't it? The television that was in the room had only films available to watch for him to select from, all the feel good kind that would be suitable for anyone. Lily had said that they didn't want him to suffer in the silence for too long, so they'd gotten it for him.

The question was how rich they were—

Well, there was the matter of how he'd ended up as their kid first.

There was no denying that it wasn't his body. The name was almost correct, only the surname wrong, while the date of birth was the exact same.

He cleared his throat. “I have another request.”

James smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Yes, anything.”

“I need you to look up someone for me,” he bluntly said. “Facebook will do. It won't be active, but seeing that it exists is enough.”

“Facebook,” Lily repeated, making it a habit to copy his words doubtfully.

It was in a small voice that he added on, “Please.”

Those were the magic words, apparently. Neither of them had the application on their phones, but all it took was Lily opening up the web browser on her phone and passing it back, looking at him with an unidentified expression as he started to tap at the screen.

He wasn't supposed to be so familiar with phones for someone who had just woke up, was he?

It took seconds for a result to pop up on the search.

Harry Potheur existed.

His account was as he'd left it all those years ago when he'd gotten bored and uninstalled the application. It had fallen off when his class-mates stopped using it, and he didn't have any old family members to keep in touch with online, so there had been no point in keeping it.

It was with that confirmation that he started to cry.

Lily and James fretted, shoving tissues in his hands, trying to console him.

-x-

The main change came the following week when Lily and James came together. It was rare that they would both have time off work to visit outside of the weekends, so he raised his eyebrows in surprise when they both walked in.

Lily had fresh flowers for him, of course.

His nose didn't get irritated.

That was more upsetting than it should've been.

“Harry,” Lily started, sitting down in the chair beside his bed, within arms distance. “There's something we need to talk to you about. The doctors—they've said that it's okay to approach you about it now.”

“What she means to say,” James said, gently putting his hand on his wife's shoulder in a show of support. “It's rather... strange that you've woken up in this condition.”

It wasn't a question when he replied, “You mean because I can understand you.”

Lily winced, placing her hand on top of James'. “Yes, that.”

“There's a lot of things you know and—and we think we have an answer to that,” James told him, giving him a nervous smile that didn't reach his eyes. “I don't want to scare you off. If there's any point where you want me to stop, you can tell me to shut up. I won't get mad.”

Harry pursed his lips.

“There's another option,” Lily offered softly. “You can hear it from the hospital staff, if you prefer. I understand that you're... wary of us.”

“I don't know you,” he bluntly responded.

James looked down at his shoes as he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“You don't,” Lily agreed, though there was a quiver to her voice. “And we want to fix that, we do—but nothing good will come out of cornering you.”

Harry fiddled with his blanket, staring down at his hands instead of their sad expressions. “You can tell me.”

It was so—

So _strange_.

These people were supposed to be his parents. When he saw the face in the mirror, he could see the features from the both of them; the soft nose, the dark hairs, and pale colour of his skin that didn't turn red whenever he was embarrassed. There was no blush that spread across his chest, making it horribly obvious whenever he was feeling shy.

It was a stranger, still.

“There's magic,” James blurted, lacking tact. “It's how—how you were kept alive for so long.”

He snapped his head up, incredulous. “What?”

“I can prove it,” Lily helpfully offered, giving him one of her signature watery smiles. She always looked close to tears when she was around him. “You see the flowers I brought in today, yes?”

Harry moved his gaze to the vase. They were bright, colourful, and a different kind to the ones he'd had the week before. The main difference was that they weren't in bloom.

“Watch them,” she told him.

He did.

And in seconds, the buds opened, the colourful flowers opening up on their own will. Lily was across the room from them, nowhere near, and yet they were growing and changing in a matter of moments despite being plucked out of the ground.

Harry swallowed.

“Do you want to touch them?” James questioned, awkwardly gesturing over to the vase. “I can grab for you, so you can confirm it's real.”

After a nod, James handed him one.

He could pierce through a petal with his thumb. It felt as real as the ones he'd pass in the countryside all of the time.

His throat felt tight.

“That's the magic I can do,” Lily informed him, back to talking as though he was a scared animal. Then again, he supposed he was when he was staring wide-eyed at a flower in his hand. “You were born with the ability for something, too. The doctors have suspected that it's something... that allowed you to pick up things while you were sleeping, maybe. It would explain why you seem to be at the right mental age.”

Magic didn't seem real.

What was real was the blistering heat of the summer and the feel of Tom's hand against him as they ran to the nearest cornershop to get something to cool down. There was nothing real about being told the supernatural was real, nor that the body that he was in could possess a talent for it.

His voice cracked as he said, “It's not that.”

“No?” James questioned, finally sitting down in the seat beside Lily instead of hovering.

“Facebook,” he awkwardly said, letting the flower drop down to his lap. “That page—it's mine. I'm not—I'm not your son.”

James readily reassured him, “Of course you're our son.”

“No,” Harry denied, pulling his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “I'm—my name is Harry Potheur, not Harry Potter. This isn't my body.”

Lily and James exchanged worried looks.

Harry tensed, awaiting their explosion reaction.

What he didn't expect was for James to take Lily's hand as he said, “It's... possible.”

“What?” Harry blurted.

“We did—we considered it, before,” Lily explained, the quiver in her voice back and matching her watery eyes. “When you never woke up, we researched everything. I know I said that my talent is with plants, but there's people—there's some that can help diagnose illnesses on sight and other medical options.”

“Harry,” James said, gently addressing him with a soft tone that matched his smile. “You are our son. You returning to this body only proves that.”

He blinked.

“What do you remember last?” Lily questioned.

It was a whisper as he replied, “I got hit by a car.”

The horrified looks he got in return clued him in that he'd said the wrong thing.

“What?” Harry questioned, cautious. “You asked.”

“The date,” James clarified, running a shaky hand through his hair.

That was when the inconsistencies started. It hadn't been lost on him that he'd been kept away from the news; the television in his room was only able to play films, and he hadn't paid enough attention to Lily's phone to actually notice that there was a major glaring difference. The plan had only been for him to confirm that his profile existed, not to snoop and see whether it was all correct.

“Three years,” Harry repeated numbly, not surprised by how blank his voice sounded. He'd run out of tears a while ago—it was to the point that he was accepting anything he was told with a cold feeling. After all, finding out magic existed and his body-hopping theory being accepted without questioning his sanity would do that to anyone. “It's—I've missed three years?”

“I'm sorry,” James offered quietly.

His throat felt tight.

Harry closed his eyes, pressing his palms into them and feeling the pain that reminded him that it was really all happening. When he was looking, he could almost fool himself into believing that he was back in his old life.

“Harry,” Lily started.

His hands dropped back down to his lap.

They really liked saying his name.

He wetted his lips. “Yes?”

“We believe you,” Lily said, reaching out and placing her hand on top of his gently. It was a foreign touch; an unwelcome one that he wasn't used to. “It's not—this isn't the first case of this happening before. Your soul was misplaced.”

“Misplaced,” he repeated, pulling his hand back.

Her expression crumbled.

“Would you like the doctors to explain it more?” James questioned, putting his arm around his wife's shoulder and giving her a half-hearted embrace to attempt to cheer her up. “I understand that this is... hard—well, I _don't_ , but I can't imagine how you must be feeling. I'm sorry you had to go through that.”

He didn't know what to say to that.

“We're here for you,” Lily reminded him.

Harry didn't have any tears left.

-x-

Alice had magic, too.

The nice middle-aged nurse that had been attending to him since he'd woken up turned out to be a friend of his parents. It was a titbit of information that didn't seem important to tell him.

“You're recovering well,” Alice complimented, her smile showing the dimples on her cheeks. “Within the month, you'll be able to return with your parents. You must want to get out of this stuffy hospital, right?”

Harry winced at her choice of words.

“Yeah, that was bad,” Alice agreed.

He blinked. “What?”

“I can get a vague sense of what you're thinking,” she happily explained, gesturing between them. “It makes nursing easier when you can tell when the patient is lying, you know? I promise it's not anything nefarious. I'm under an oath to obey the law or whatever like any other medical professional.”

Cautiously, he asked, “You can hear my thoughts?”

“Not completely,” Alice corrected, smoothing out her clothes. “It's more... the jist of them? Instead of hearing the whole tangent, I pick up the important parts—you thought my words were insensitive, I don't know if you insulted the Potters in your head before or after that.”

His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

Alice sighed. “And now you think I'm weird.”

“How am I not the weird one?” Harry muttered. “This isn't even my body.”

“It is,” she assured him. “There's no tests we could do to confirm that your soul was missing, sadly. This has happened before—a woman's magic messed up her birth and she was in a coma, like you. The only difference is she swapped back after dying of old age in her other body.”

He felt like his head was spinning. “This is... normal?”

“Normal isn't the word I'd use,” Alice said with a sheepish smile. “It's very unusual. A medical anomaly, almost. Your parents always held hope that you'd wake up, and they had the money to keep you going, so...”

Harry frowned. “Money?”

Alice happily gestured around them. “You think we'd give this private room for free? No, sir.”

It was somewhat bitter as he mumbled, “What a waste.”

“Maybe,” Alice agreed with a shrug. “It's their choice what to spend their money on, no? And I bet they're celebrating your return, not counting their receipts to see how much this has cost.”

He stared down at his hand that was missing the mole. “I'm not their son.”

“Eh, that's up to you,” she replied, taking the seat beside him. “I'm not going to pressure you into anything. I know this body of yours is unfamiliar, Harry, but the world doesn't have to be.”

He laughter was entirely forced. “Am I supposed to just—just accept all of this?”

“Of course not,” Alice denied. “After you've recovered, you can do what you want, you're legally an adult.”

That had him snapping his head up. “I'm what?”

“This body is yours is twenty,” she reminded him.

Right.

He'd come to three years after the accident, after his birthday that he'd never gotten to spend with Tom. There wasn't a lot of changes that he'd been able to notice yet, other than how up-to-date Lily's phone had been. It wasn't as though he had anything to compare it to any more.

“My son's off at university,” Alice revealed with a wistful tone. “What did you plan to do before? You can do that, I'm sure. The Potters have all the money in the world to spend on you.”

He fidgeted. “I'm not taking their money.”

“Think of it for compensation, if you want,” she quipped. “You've got two loving parents that are ready to spoil you. I'm not saying you have to be the perfect son, but you're in a good position right now.”

Harry muttered, “You know an awful lot about them.”

“Do I?” Alice mused. “I've chatted with them over the years. Lily comes over for wine nights sometimes, but those usually end up messy. I wouldn't recommend drinking if you've inherited her tolerance.”

It was so strange that Alice was talking to him as though it was a normal conversation. She wasn't sugar-coating her words, wasn't trying to tell him that everything would be okay if he opened his heart to his family, nor was she pretending that his situation wasn't a rare one.

Lily and James had almost made it sound like it happened a lot.

“You're friends,” he remarked.

Alice hummed. “I do get Christmas cards from them.”

He blurted, “I've never had a Christmas card.”

“Well, you're in luck,” she told him with a bright smile. “It's only a month away! I'll send you one.”

Harry had to laugh. “I don't want a pity card.”

She winked. “It'll be a thank you card for letting me slack off.”

-x-

There were tests after that. Along with making sure that his body was recovered enough to allow him to move, let alone walk anywhere instead of being wheeled around, they had to gauge his mental development since it was confirmed that he'd had a life before.

That was bizarre.

It was definitely because of his magic, they said.

Harry stared down at his hands in bewilderment.

Apparently, it wouldn't become clear what his powers were until he'd settled in. They would either come when he was emotional or in response to his actions in his everyday life. Lily told him that hers had happened when she was a kid and attending to her garden with her father, while James' had happened when he kept finding his parents' car keys.

Finding lost things didn't sound like a good power until James admitted that he worked with the police.

It was more impressive then.

Harry didn't have much tact as he said, “You couldn't find my lost soul.”

James winced. “I have to see a picture or know what it looks like, so no.”

“A picture,” he repeated, whispering the word under his breath again. As much as Lily and James had come to visit him and opened up about their lives, Harry had been quiet about his. “Would you—can you find someone if I show you a picture?”

James started to say in a gentle tone, “Harry...”

“That's a no,” he deduced.

“Your condition isn't easily explained,” James told him with a sad smile that meet his eyes. “Especially not to those that aren't... like us.”

It was the expected answer, wasn't it?

And yet, all he could say was, “Oh.”

“I'm sorry,” James offered. It was worse that he actually sounded sincere about it all. “I haven't pried into your old life yet since I wanted to ask you whether—do you want us to do that? If you left a pet behind or something, I can snatch them up and kidnap them for you if they're still there.”

Harry shook his head. “No pets.”

“No?” James questioned. “Because I—”

“There's nothing I want,” he glumly replied, staring down at his hands once more. It was hard to get used to how different he looked, even when he wasn't in front of a mirror. “And my family probably cleared out my room for someone else already.”

James was hesitant as he asked, “Someone else?”

He shrugged. “Another foster kid, probably.”

James sounded strangled. “Were you... one of them?”

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

It was a change for James to be the one to respond simply with, “Oh.”

“It's fine,” Harry said, the familiar words not feeling so forced any more. “They're probably the best family I was with. I wasn't starved or anything.”

“That's... nice,” James replied, choked up.

“Nice,” he repeated, a bit amused. “I guess that's the word for it, yeah.”

“Harry—”

“You like saying my name a lot,” he remarked, looking up to see how James was as teary-eyed as his absent wife usually was. “Aren't you—aren't you disappointed with me?”

“No, never,” James whispered, facial features scrunching together as he tried not to cry. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I don't see you as my parents?” Harry replied, reaching up to nervously scratch his cheek. “I have all these—I have memories of a whole life without you. I'm not going to suddenly lose them and become your kid.”

James ran a hand through his hair. “I don't know anything about being a parent.”

He blinked.

“We never—after you, we never tried again,” James awkwardly explained, shifting uncomfortably on the seat and making it squeak with the movement. “You don't have to see me as a dad, but I still want to be there for you. Lily, too.”

Harry's smile wasn't entirely forced. “I don't know anything about having parents.”

“Well, that's good, then,” James tried to joke. “We can figure it out together, if you'd like.”

Lily and James weren't the enemy.

They weren't a family that was hosting him in for the money each month without taking care of him properly; they were parents that had never gotten to know their son and didn't know what to do with the awkward situation. For them to be childless and suddenly have a teenager shoved onto them that had different memories—

Harry felt pity for them before remembering that his body was supposed to be twenty.

That was strange to think about.

“I'm Harry,” he said, offering his hand out to James. “I was sixteen and in my first year of sixth form.”

When James smiled, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes became more prominent.

“James,” came the response as they shook hands. “It's nice to meet you.”

-x-

Along with Alice, the other medical professions he met were all magical.

There wasn't a particular name to refer to themselves as; from wizards, magician, mages, or adepti, there were so many that each person said when meeting him against post-magic talk. For the most part, Lily and James didn't use any of them, simply referring to their magic when it was relevant.

It was overwhelming.

Harry felt small, so tiny and insignificant compared to everything he was suddenly exposed to. The biggest thing in his life had been passing time and waiting for the summer to come, not waiting for his body to settle to see what special power he would have.

Because he'd have one, for sure. All of the doctors and nurses that popped in each confirmed it, telling funny stories about how theirs had manifested when they were growing up.

“There's a few schools,” Lily revealed. “Private ones all across the country. They're disguised to be for talented children, but that's fancy talk for having magic. It doesn't matter whether their grades are abysmal or not.”

Harry pointed out, “I'm too old for school.”

“That you are,” she agreed with a smile. “I have some books leftover? About magic, that is. Let's leave your normal education for a while. I'm not sending you out into the world to get a job just yet.”

He quietly asked, “What if I want to?”

“I can't stop you,” Lily replied quietly. “I'd prefer it if you didn't. You've only just woken up. Your body isn't fully recovered yet, though you are looking better.”

“I am?” he questioned, touching his face.

“Not as gaunt,” she mused. “You seem healthier.”

Harry glumly said, “I don't feel it.”

“Not at all?” Lily asked. “Alice says you've improved with your daily exercises.”

Then as soon as the words left her mouth, Lily winced.

“I know you're friends,” Harry said before she could apologise. “I haven't told her anything that I wouldn't want you two finding out.”

Lily blinked. “Oh.”

“When can I leave?” he asked.

“Two weeks,” Lily admitted, smile reaching her eyes. “We set up the guest room for you to use. It's rather plain because we didn't want to decorate it before you could get a say in it.”

How strange was that? Harry had never been able to pick out the colours of his room before; hell, he'd been lucky to share with only one other child for the most part of his life. To be the only child—if he still classed as that—under one roof would be a strange experience in itself.

It was the slight hope of happiness that had him wary. There had to be a catch somewhere.

For him to suddenly return to what was his original body and experience only happiness seemed like he'd been punched in the chest. It didn't erase everything that had happened before, nor would it heal the distrust that he felt for others.

No one had cared about him before Tom.

Tom, who'd changed his phone number and wasn't able to be reached. And even if he was able to talk to him, Tom would never believe such a wild tale.

Harry wasn't blond-haired with hay fever any more.

He was a stranger, no matter his memories.

It was hard to let go of the past.

He'd been struggling with coming to terms with his new life in the first place. The slow and steady stream of information about magic and the things he'd experience when he recovered gave him something to look forward to rather than floundering around not know what to do.

In the eyes of the law, he'd been in a coma for his entire life. It was a wonder that Lily and James had spent so much money to keep him alive for all that time instead of giving up.

“How many people do you know with magic?” Harry asked.

“A lot,” Lily happily told him. “A lot of our close friend circle are like that—their kids, too! A few are your age. I'm not trying to set you up for a play-date or anything, you're far too old for that, though it might be nice to talk to some your age for insight.”

He sounded dubious. “Maybe.”

“I'm not going to force anything on you,” she reminded him. “I'm sure James has told you those words already, but I really need you to understand that. Although I think I might be a hopeless parent, I only want for you to be happy.”

He ran a hand through his thick hair, still caught off-guard from the somewhat curly texture of it. “Okay.”

“And you're getting monosyllabic again,” she remarked, almost teasing. “I know when you're overwhelmed with conversation now.”

“This is... a lot,” Harry mumbled.

“It is,” Lily agreed. “There's no pressure to get the hang of it all. We don't expect anything.”

It was a whisper as he said, “You expect me to be your son.”

“And you are, so you've done that,” she pointed out. “Any more is an added bonus.”

He looked down at his hand. “This doesn't feel real.”

“Is there anything you need?” Lily asked. “And I mean anything, Harry. Do you want a new phone? A laptop?”

His brow furrowed. “You'd buy that for me?”

“Of course,” she replied without hesitation. “You must be bored sitting in here all day.”

He shrugged. “It's not so bad.”

“Oh, it must be terribly dull,” Lily said, shaking her head. “Tell you what, I'll send James in tomorrow with a new phone for you. We'll put our numbers in it so you can reach us any time, instead of having to grab a nurse.”

It was unsaid between them that Harry had yet to do that. The only time he spoke to Lily and James was when they were in the room with him.

He settled with saying, “If you're sure.”

Lily beamed. “Absolutely!”

And so, James came and give him the device the following day. It model was the same as Lily's in a different colour, expensive and ever-so-shiny. It was so much more than the old phone he'd had that he'd topped up with credit every now and then.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“It's no problem,” James replied, smiling. “And I mean it, kid. You need anything, you tell us, okay? I don't care if it's a specific meal you want to eat or—”

“Okay, I get it,” Harry interrupted with a laugh.

James was staring at him with wide eyes.

“What?” he asked, touching his face self-consciously.

“Sorry, it's just—that's the first time I've seen you laugh,” James blurted, touching the nape of his neck before cringing. “And that was really lame to say, wasn't it?”

He swallowed. “It's not lame.”

“It felt lame,” James insisted. “I have more experience with raising a cat than having children. I don't know what I'm doing right now.”

“You have a cat?” he asked.

“Had,” James admitted. “She died a few years ago, sadly. Lily and I hadn't got round to adopting another yet.”

It was a reminder that James had offered to steal his family pet to make him happy.

“You were planning to?” Harry questioned, a small smile curling on his lips. “I've never had a pet.”

James quickly said, “Well, if you want one, we'll get right on that.”

“You don't need to throw a pet at me to make me happy,” he replied, still a bit baffled from how ready these two adults were to try and please him. It seemed that they would give into any of his demands, though he hadn't tested their limits yet. “I'm—I need to adjust, that's all.”

James breathed out audibly. “That's an understatement.”

“Yeah, dude,” Harry agreed.

“Dude?” James sounded as surprised as he looked. “You called me dude.”

Harry winced. “Uh, sir?”

“Dude is absolutely fine,” James quickly insisted, gesturing between them. “Call me whatever you want. I know it's weird between us.”

He grimaced. “I'm not calling you dude.”

“I'll be awaiting the day you do again,” James teased, smiling wide with his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I'll mark it down in my diary to celebrate it.”

“You've got a diary?”

James winked. “I do now.”

They were good at getting his guard down.

These people really wanted him, didn't they? They'd spent hundreds on a phone alone, delivering it to him the very next day to try and make him smile, and they didn't talk to him like he was a child. It was unclear whether it was because they were awkward with children or were trying to make him comfortable first.

It didn't feel like trying to talk to authority figures.

They weren't the headmaster telling him off for his attendance, not the foster families that locked him outside since he couldn't be trusted to stay alone in the home while they were gone, nor the kids from his school that he'd awkwardly failed to get along with.

Lily and James were strange, new, and shiny. And in their eyes, he was, too.

It was a strange dynamic.

Alice became the third number in his phone.

“You'll see me regardless,” she explained, tucking her short hair behind her ear. “I pop round every now and then to see Lily.”

“For your wine nights,” he noted.

Alice laughed loudly. “You're old enough to join them, you know.”

His smile wasn't forced. “I'll think about it.”

When it came time to leave the hospital, he no longer recoiled at his reflection. It was still foreign to him, yes, but he'd started to accept his new situation.

Alice had warned him beforehand that James had gotten it into his head to buy a load of party poppers and balloons for when he left. Thankfully, Lily had talked James out of it at the last minute.

It was nice having an inside source of information.

Alice ruffled his hair.

Harry smiled back at her, saying, “Thank you.”

“No problem, kid,” Alice replied. “You give these two hell, yeah? They deserve it for burning my dinner the last time I came over.”

Lily snorted. “That's because you distracted me.”

Alice sniffed. “I wasn't the one cooking.”

“That's beside the point—”

James clapped his hands. “You both got pissed and almost burnt down the kitchen.”

“Chill, James,” Lily said with a roll of her eyes. “There wasn't even a fire.”

“No, but there was the smell of smoke all throughout the house,” James replied matter-of-factly. Then, he turned towards him and gestured between the two woman. “Don't trust them together, okay? They're troublemakers.”

Alice made an offended noise. “That's grand coming from _you_.”

“I don't know what you're on about, Alice,” James replied, haughtily raising his head. “I'm a respectable member of society.”

Lily sounded amused as she pointed out, “You've been arrested before.”

James winked at her. “For being too hot.”

Alice made a gagging noise.

And Harry stood there, smiling at their banter.


	2. 02

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **previously:** harry died and woke up in a new body, met lily and james, learned that body-hopping isn't unheard of, and was released from the hospital.
> 
> the title has been changed from “the blessings of death” to “until death do us part” because the plot changed a lot in the later chapters. (^～^;)ゞ i figured it was so soon that i could do that without confusing too many people. sorry if you had whiplash wondering what this was!! 
> 
> the world gets expanded upon more in this one!! remember that it'll be very very very different from canon. i'm taking the au tag seriously. i'll explain it all slowly in the story, so there won't be any paragraphs telling you guys everything up here.

_Harry Potter © J. K. Rowling_

“So, it's a cult.”

James struggled not to laugh. “It's not a cult, Harry.”

“It sounds very cult-like,” he remarked, pushing his food around on the plate. His appetite hadn't grown quite as large as the servings he'd suddenly been given since leaving the hospital. “Are you really trying to tell me this... secret society isn't a cult?”

“It's not a secret society,” James protested.

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, maybe a bit,” James gave in with a sigh, his shoulders slumping. “There's nothing stopping you from leaving! It's just—it's like a book club, but everyone's open about their powers instead of their favourite books.”

He asked, “You've never been to a book club, have you?”

James beamed. “No.”

“Am I expected to join this cult?” Harry questioned, holding his mug with two hands, happy that it was still hot. “Because I need to know more before I agree to sell my soul to your almighty leader or whatever.”

“Still not a cult, kid,” James denied with a shake of his head. “There's no meetings or anything—well, no, that's not true. We throw a barbecue in the summer.”

He smiled. “No poisoned food?”

“No spiked drinks either,” James replied. “It's just a way of knowing who's who. There's always the website that you can sign up to, though.”

“...There's a website?” Harry asked, incredulous.

James snapped his fingers before pointing at him as he proudly proclaimed, “It looks like a role-playing forum to anyone that's not in the know.”

“And you let anyone join?”

“It's invite only, of course,” James responded, the chipper tone in his voice having nothing to do with the early hours of the morning. It had become apparent out of the two of them, Lily was more of the morning person, leaving before Harry would've been up for school. “And it's international, so you can chat with those that don't live in the area. A lot better than my parents sending letters back in the day.”

It was still a bit hard to come to terms with everything new.

Lily and James had welcomed him into their home with open arms. It was quaint despite their enormous wealth, a home with a well-cared for garden out the front and back. The neighbourhood was a somewhat posh one, far more upscale than the majority of Harry's village.

The town they resided in was close to a city, though they were leaving venturing there for when Harry said he felt up to it. Adjusting to the home and the surrounding area seemed like a good idea first, especially since he had no idea about the faces around him.

It wasn't as though he wasn't allowed out—technically, he would be viewed as an adult when his identification came through.

He didn't really want to.

Harry caught up with the news slowly, only watching television for a few hours before moving on. He browsed some articles on his phone, catching up with free-to-play games that he'd played before that had once been the height of popularity, and spent his days in moderate peace.

There was no studying or cramming for a test, no getting up early to walk to school to arrive on time, and Lily and James were the ones to do the cooking, leaving any leftovers in the fridge for him to eat if he got hungry while they were gone.

Lily and James didn't lock him out when they had to go to work.

It had never crossed their minds, apparently. Harry had been surprised when James had said he was going to work and would be back later that night for the first time, leaving him alone for a few hours until Lily came back.

In the beginning, he'd been too scared to touch anything. He didn't know what their reactions would be when they were away from the public eye. Harry was careful to put anything he took back in the place he found it.

“How do you know?” Harry asked, clearing his throat before taking a sip of his drink. “That someone—someone's born with magic?”

“Unfortunately, it doesn't come from nowhere,” James informed him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “All of our families made a deal with a demon somewhere in time in exchange for these powers. It seems like a pretty shit exchange, to be honest. You have to sacrifice what you love most to get it.”

Harry stared.

“Not me,” James hurriedly added on, shaking his hands. “My great-grandmother.”

What was he supposed to say to _that_?

“Jokes on her, though,” James mused. “She killed her parents and ended up being able to see in the dark. Really great magic there, eh?”

Harry questioned, “Can you see in the dark?”

“No,” James denied, reaching up and tapping below his eye. “My bloodline is all about the eyes. Lily's is—well, it's a form of healing, I suppose? She can revive plants, no matter how gone they are.”

He tilted his head. “My options are either healing or eyes?”

“Yeah, exactly!” James exclaimed, snapping his fingers in victory. “I knew I'd be the better one to tell you. I'm a good teacher, right?”

Harry snorted. “Uh, sure.”

“I've been meaning to ask,” James started, pushing his plate forward so he could put his elbow on the table. “Do you need glasses? My eye sight's shitty.”

He shook his head. “My eyes are fine.”

“If you're sure,” James said, accepting his answer without doubt. Since the reveal of his reincarnation, Lily and James had stopped questioning his answers too much. They accepted them without being dubious. “Anything else you need before I go to work?”

He shrugged.

“You sure?” James asked again.

“I'll be fine,” Harry said, getting up and picking up his plate to put into the dishwasher.

It was refreshing not having to wash dishes any more. The home had a lot of gadgets; a soundbar for the television in the living room to make it have surround-sound, dim options for the majority of lights, and the little knick-knacks in the kitchen.

Lily and James clearly bought whatever they wanted, splurging and keeping the useful things around. Although the home wasn't much bigger than the one he'd lived in before, it was up-to-date, had nice quality carpet and the paint on the walls wasn't chipped. There was nothing rundown about it at all.

For the hours before Lily returned, Harry lounged around on his bed, adjusting the plush pillows and getting comfortable on them as he tapped away at his phone.

When he asked to be set up on the website—that definitely wasn't for a cult—Lily happily agreed, sending an invitation from her account.

There was nothing dated about the site. It didn't look like some old blog that he'd stumbled across; instead, it was similar to ones he'd been on for users playing a specific game. It had forums to talk in, all separated out into topics and labelled correctly, and an instant messaging application that could either be used on the site or downloaded to talk conveniently.

It really did look like a role-playing space with how it was ironically decorated.

At the profile section where it was possible to choose a race that wasn't human, Harry had to cautiously ask, “Do vampires exist?”

James happily nodded. “Like Bigfoot, yes.”

Lily jabbed him in the side with her elbow. “No, don't listen to him. As far as we know, there's only us and demons.”

“And demons... look like what?” Harry questioned.

Lily struggled for an answer before shrugging.

“Can't really give you an answer to that,” James replied with another smile, still proud that he'd managed to trick him for a few seconds. “They're only visible to the people making a deal, and then afterwards, they don't recall exactly what they look like? I like to imagine they're really ugly for peace of mind.”

Lily told him, “Unless you complete the ritual to summon one, you'll never see them.”

Harry mumbled, “That's not as reassuring as you think it is.”

Lily laughed.

-x-

The first time he met Hermione, it was awkward.

Hermione was short—barely an inch below his current height but would've been taller than his old body—wasn't afraid to state her opinions, and her first impression was mixed when she turned up at the shopping centre soaked because she'd forgotten to bring an umbrella.

“You could've turned around and gotten one,” he pointed out.

Hermione huffed. “And be late? I don't have your number and I thought you wouldn't see my message in time.”

“Want my number?” Harry asked.

Her lips parted in surprise. “Really?”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “You don't seem like a murderer. Besides, if you do anything funny, I'm living with a police officer right now.”

Hermione whistled. “That's ruined my plans, then.”

He smiled. “Sorry.”

Hermione was one of the most active on the forums. Harry had browsed the different topics for a few weeks, never quite making it to posting his own questions when he had yet to understand all the things he'd been told already, so it was from his curiosity that he'd started to notice her username.

It wasn't anything personal, of course. While it was invite only and most of the forums weren't open for the public to view, there was always the chance of someone slipping through the cracks. There had to be some sort of running joke for the gag threads that talked about potions and witchcraft.

Lily had already told him that they didn't exist.

It was magic from their bodies only—no rituals under the moonlight, no supernatural creatures roaming around and biting people, and his body-hopping was considered one of the most impressive things in a few decades despite him not actually being in control of it.

After he'd posted his first question, Hermione had messaged him privately to give him the answer in detail.

They'd started to talk after that. The biggest surprise came when she'd said that she was twenty-one. At first, Harry had found her a bit intimidating for the age difference before doing the maths and realising that they would've been in the same year at school. It was strange to try and calculate the differences when his mind was in the past.

“Want to grab a coffee?” Hermione questioned.

They found a café that wasn't too busy. While Harry resided in the town over, Hermione lived in the city, so they'd compromised to go halfway and meet on the outskirts instead of in the heart of the city where it would be crowded and ever-so-packed.

It was good that Hermione knew her way around.

Lily had driven him there, double-checking that he knew what he was doing.

There was the offer to take him back later, though he did say he had plans to take a bus and use a virtual ticket. The lack of data on his previous phone meant that he'd always bought his tickets in person and had to throw them away in the past.

It was a stepping stone for him going out.

And Hermione—who was all smiles with her damp hair braided loosely in a plait that was already coming undone since they'd met—seemed like a nice person.

While Lily and James had offered again to introduce him to the children of their friends, he hadn't accepted it, instead wanting to make his own connections.

“So,” he started when they'd sat down, awkwardly knocking his foot into hers under the table. “I—sorry.”

“Don't worry about it,” Hermione replied with a smile. It didn't seem forced. “I assume you're new? I mean, your account _did_ say that it was created recently...”

He held his mug in his hands to keep them occupied. “I'm new to magic.”

She made an understanding noise. “Parents keep you from it or did you accidentally summon a demon?”

He blinked. “People can do that on accident?”

“Oh, yes,” Hermione confirmed with a frown. “Nasty thing, that.”

“I'm sorry, what?” he blurted.

“Never read strange books aloud,” was her response to that.

Harry stared. “Are you joking?”

“I'm not,” Hermione replied, tucking some stray hairs behind her ear. “That's not the case for you, is it?”

“No demon involved,” he admitted. “I'm—I still don't know what my powers are? Nothing's really happened, but the hospital says I'll have some. I had that checked.”

“A late bloomer, then,” Hermione concluded. “Have you been doing the training exercises? They may sound rather tedious, but their success rate is quite high if you're aware of your familial powers.”

He quietly replied, “I skimmed through the text.”

“There's no pressure to do it immediately,” she told him, taking a sip of her drink and wincing. “I didn't learn anything more about my magic at school. It's only a safe place to get it under control around those that are like us—and it's always good to be tutored by professors that actually know what they're talking about.”

Harry just nodded.

“Sorry, I ramble,” Hermione apologised, offering him a shy smile. “I go on tangents sometimes. Feel free to tell me if I'm talking too much since I know you're not here for a lecture.”

“Honestly, this is the first time I've gone out alone in _years_ ,” he replied, shrugging. “I'm terrible at keeping the conversation going.”

Hermione recovered from her surprise quickly. “What made you want to meet up with me?”

“You're smart,” he said.

“And?” she prompted.

He smiled. “And lived nearby?”

“Did you even check anyone else?” Hermione questioned.

“Well, no,” he replied, honest. “No one else spoke to me. I'm as shy online as I am in real life.”

“Harry,” Hermione chastised, tutting. “I really could've been a killer.”

“I'm living with someone that can literally track me down,” he confessed. “I think I'll be fine.”

She shook her head. “No sense of danger.”

“It sounds like you're trying to make me regret this,” he mused. “You're not, like, going to steal my kidney or anything, are you? I don't want to go back to hospital so soon.”

Hermione replied, “I'm after your liver, actually.”

He sighed. “I should've known.”

There wasn't anything specific that he'd wanted to ask her in person. They'd been exchanging messages for a few weeks, talking on-and-off at odd hours in the day around her work schedule, and he'd been the one to propose they could meet up when finding out that they lived nearby.

Hermione had graduated university early.

She was working part-time at a book-store in the city for the time being. It wasn't a cover for a magical store, sadly; he was quite put-out to be reminded that powers couldn't enchant objects, no matter what someone's magic was.

“This whole magic thing is pretty underwhelming,” he muttered.

Hermione laughed. “Tell me about it. I thought I'd suddenly be surrounded by it everywhere when I changed schools. All I got were some snotty kids that claimed they were better than me because their magic was offensive.”

“What's yours?” Harry asked.

She raised her eyebrows.

“Is that rude?” he questioned, furrowing his brow. “Have I committed some known faux pas?”

“When you said you stalked me online, I thought you would've known already,” she remarked.

“I told you, I'm new,” Harry pointed out. “I haven't obsessively looked for your posts or anything. I kept recognising your name because you're everywhere.”

“It's my brain,” she replied, reaching up and tapping her temple. “I can touch a book and know the contents instantly. I admit, it takes the fun out of reading when I know all the plot twists already.”

He blinked. “What?”

“It's a bit jarring,” Hermione admitted with a laugh. “An overload of information all at once.”

“And you... remember it?” he questioned.

“For a good while, yes,” she confirmed. “It feels like I crammed for a test and can't forget the answers until I die.”

“That sucks,” he offered.

“Eh, I'm used to it now. Besides, people pay me good money to get information for them,” Hermione replied, blowing on her drink before taking another sip. It should've already been cold by then. “What about your parents?”

“Something to do with eyes or healing,” he recalled. “Unless I get, like, laser beams, I don't think it's going to be something... offensive.”

Her laughter wasn't forced. “You'd be surprised.”

“At this point, I'm willing to accept anything,” he muttered. “Even Bigfoot.”

“Oh, someone pulled that delightful joke on you?” she questioned. “I had a class-mate try to convince me that the monster under my bed was real and that it wanted to suck out all my magic.”

He snorted. “Really?”

“To be fair, I was seven,” she admitted.

“That's... young,” he remarked. “You knew at that age?”

“Unfortunately,” was her clipped response.

He didn't press the subject.

They stayed out until the café was closing.

Harry gave in and used more of the money he'd been given when his stomach rumbled. Rather than go for a sandwich or something else sensible, he stared longingly at the shelves of sweets before asking Hermione for her recommendation. The fancy-looking ones were all the things that he hadn't been able to afford before, let alone be given in his home.

Everything had gone to the other children rather than him.

At his confession that he'd never tried any before, Hermione suggested that they could get two and split them.

He didn't realise she meant two each until she'd wandered back up the counter with a determined expression, returning with a tray filled with four plates to take up their tiny table.

They tasted sweet.

Hermione's smile reached her eyes as she asked him how they were.

-x-

Lily and James loved Hermione.

When Harry had been dropped off in the city to meet her the second time—at another café to try out their menu—Hermione had been near enough to where the vehicle had stopped for him to point her out to Lily.

Lily had stuck her head out of the window, calling Hermione's name.

Hermione had been bewildered and wary until Harry had waved and offered her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

It was enough to have Hermione wandering over, politely greeting Lily and giving him a more genuine smile. “Nice to see you again, Harry.”

“Ready to take my liver?” he questioned, undoing his seatbelt before clambering out of his seat. And when he turned around to face Lily, he said, “Thank you for for the lift.”

“It's no problem,” Lily replied. “Have fun you two. I'm going to buy some Christmas presents, so don't be alarmed and think I'm stalking you.”

Hermione laughed.

“Right, Christmas,” Harry murmured, feeling a bit glum at the reminder that he'd been pushed forward a few months, ripped away from the summer heat to shops being decorated with Christmas-related items and the happy music playing despite it being the end of November. “I forgot.”

“You forgot,” Hermione repeated, dubious.

He shrugged. “I don't go out much.”

“I'll leave you two be,” Lily said as her parting words, giving Hermione another smile and saying that it was nice to put a face to a name.

Lily and James had already seen Hermione's pictures on social media and confirmed that she was a real person before he'd gone to see her the last time.

And when the car had started driving away, Hermione asked, “Your mom?”

Harry didn't know how to respond to that.

There was an awkward silence.

Neither of them brought up the topic of family after that. They chatted about a majority of things; Hermione's experience at a private school with other magical children, how Harry was spending his days with the excuse he was taking a gap year for a while, and even the most uninteresting things had his attention when it was with someone new.

As nice as Lily and James were, they were right that leaving the home would do him some good. Alice hadn't come over to visit since he'd been released, though he had gotten some messages from her that were entirely out of the blue and asking him whether he'd found his favourite alcohol yet.

It was when James came to pick him up—insisting that it was on his way home from work, so it wouldn't be a bother—that the invitation for Hermione to come over for dinner was extended.

Hermione accepted, of course.

Later, he got a message from her asking if they really weren't his parents.

Harry replied that they were people he lived with.

It was the best answer he could give—Lily and James were kind and attentive to him, yes, but they swore and spoke about topics that weren't appropriate around him. Then again, despite the disconnect in his mind, he was twenty.

Did all parents talk to their grown up kids like that?

They didn't view him like that either. Lily and James had been childless for most of their relationship, had absolutely no idea how to talk to him about his childhood so they avoided that subject, but they were _nice_.

It put them a step-up above all the other families he'd stayed with.

Hermione came over with a bottle of wine.

“Not for me, thanks,” Hermione said when a glass was offered to her. “I got given it for a job once, so I'm finally glad to give it away. I never want to see it again.”

James laughed loudly. “We'll happily take it out of your hands.”

“Job?” Lily questioned politely. “I should hope people aren't bribing you with alcohol at a book-store.”

“I never tell them where I work,” Hermione denied. “That would be ridiculous.”

James sounded amused. “Right.”

“I can translate languages if people are in a pinch,” Hermione replied, gesturing up to her head. “Most of the time, it's people like us coming to me to translate old books that they think might have information about demons in them. I'm not even shocked when they turn out to be recipe books any more.”

Harry was incredulous. “ _Recipe_?”

“How else do you think they remember all their recipes?” was Hermione's answer to that. “For some reason, when someone seems Latin, they assume the contents is nefarious. It almost _never_ is.”

“Almost?” Lily asked her.

Hermione took a sip of her non-alcoholic drink. “Well, there are those that actually do summon demons.”

She was a treasure trove of information.

Lily was fascinated, animatedly chatting with her and forgetting that dinner was warming up in the oven, so it was Harry that wandered over to take the cloth and take it out. He was familiar enough to know where the plates and cutlery all were, enough so to have a favourite mug.

It didn't escape him that some of the stuff had been bought as he'd arrived, alongside the somewhat plain wardrobe that was in his bedroom. He'd had only an outfit at first before Lily had pulled him aside and demanded that he pick out what he wanted online.

That experience was new. He suddenly found himself with all sorts of clothes for the different weathers, a better coat to combat the cold than he'd ever had before, and different pairs of gloves and scarves that he could match to his clothes.

Hermione started to come over a lot.

James bought a bottle of her favourite syrup to put in her coffee to make her feel more welcome.

And Harry got used to the laughter and talking in the house, no longer worried when he heard loud voices when he woke up. It was Lily and James laughing and joking around, the two of them still not used to having someone else in the house.

They'd messed up and played loud music when he was asleep one time, turning it down within minutes. Harry had heard them bickering about who was the idiotic one between them.

There were setbacks, of course.

With Christmas coming close, cards started to arrive in the mail. Lily strung them up on a garland and decorated the wall while James struggled to bring the tree in, dismayed when it was too tall and scratched the ceiling.

They were kind of hopeless which was refreshing to see. He'd been so used to adults being the ultimate authority; that if he didn't reach their standards of perfect, he'd be punished for his misbehaviour.

He wasn't the one accidentally burning the dinner, overheating the milk for lattes at the weekend, or stubbing his toe on the coffee table from being too lazy to turn on the lamp. The two of them messed up so often and never fought about it; there was laughter and jokes made about their mistakes, the two so obviously in love and accepting of each other's faults.

Sometimes, it was hard to look at.

Harry had his good and bad days.

There were times when he was sat in his room, staring blankly at his wall before looking at the missing mole on his hand. For all he'd gotten in exchange, he wouldn't be able to reach out to Tom, would he? Years had passed as it was.

He wondered what Tom was doing.

Tom had never been a fan of social media. The most they'd done was exchange texts between seeing each other, though that was often awkward because Tom liked to type with punctuation and absolutely hated it when Harry sent him emojis. He was stiff and rarely responded to his own friends when they text him during the summer, preferring to wait until they were in person.

Hermione almost typed liked him.

There was a miscommunication when James had questioned Hermione mentioning his lie.

“Gap year?” James asked, furrowing his brow.

“You know,” Harry butted in, shooting him a wide-eyed look. “From university?”

“I—yes,” James stuttered out, bewildered. “Right. I knew that.”

Hermione wasn't convinced.

When they were alone in the living room after James had left for work, she pounced and asked, “Are you really taking a year off?”

Harry winced. “Is it that obvious?”

“Everything's all a bit weird,” she mused, poking the garland that James had draped over the fireplace. It was decorated with flowers that Lily was constantly healing to make them pretty and perfect every morning. “And the fact that you're living with this couple who barely seem to know you.”

He quietly asked, “Does it really come across that way?”

“Well, yes,” Hermione replied with little hesitation. “I've been around enough to see them remind you of what's happened in recent years a lot while asking you a question. It's the way they phrase it that's strange.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “It's a bit... weird.”

“Weird,” Hermione repeated, raising her eyebrows. “By what standards, exactly? I translate ancient cooking books as a side-job.”

It was fine to tell her, wasn't it? Hermione was nice, understanding, and had happily kept him company on her days off, coming over to hang out and do the most mundane things. It had become apparent that she didn't have that many friends from how often they text and she was free.

He wasn't in a position to judge—his only friend was gone.

“Have you heard of souls being misplaced before?” Harry blurted.

Hermione tilted her head. “As in... placed in another body at birth?”

“Yeah, that,” he confirmed, shoulders relaxing. “I had that.”

“You _had_ that?” she questioned, curious.

“I woke up a while ago,” Harry admitted, fiddling with his sleeve. “Except for me, I died three years in the past and I was an entirely different person. I'm still... adjusting.”

It was with a bright smile that Hermione asked, “Would you mind if I asked you about this?”

“I don't mind if it's you,” he responded. “Haven't you read books about this?”

“I haven't actually read a book for years,” she complained, tucking some stray hairs behind her ear. “And I'm fed up with the dull range of speakers for audiobooks. They get dreadfully boring with some inflections, but I can't be picky when I'd otherwise know all the plot twists if I touched the book.”

“Audiobooks,” Harry repeated. “I didn't think of that.”

She smiled. “My power only works with paper.”

“So, you can't touch a computer and know everything?”

Hermione sighed. “Sadly not.”

The questions she had weren't about his old life; rather, how he'd felt when he'd woken up in what was supposed to be his original body. When Lily returned first, Hermione jumped at the chance to ask what Harry had been through medically to make it through, and after Lily glanced at him to see whether he approved of the topic, those questions were answered.

Hermione's thirst for knowledge let him learn a few things.

As it turned out, the last misplaced soul that had come back to their body riddled with old age hadn't lived long enough for their magic to develop.

Magic came from the soul, apparently. It couldn't manifest in his old body because it wasn't his.

“Not mine?” Harry questioned. “Then, who—did I _take_ someone's body?”

Hermione winced. “...Yes.”

“Yes?” he exclaimed, running his hand through his hair and gripping the roots. “Does that—did they get sent to my body or what?”

“Your body rejected it,” Lily answered for him.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably. “I killed a person?”

Hermione was the one to enquire, “Are you really trying to say you murdered someone? Don't be ridiculous, Harry. You never made it out of the womb because your magic malfunctioned.”

“I kicked someone else out of their body,” he insisted, wide-eyed as he let his hands fall down to his lap. “They—if it wasn't for me, they would've lived.”

“You were a baby,” Lily told him, gently reaching out and putting her hand on top of his. “There is nothing to accuse you of. It was an accident.”

He didn't recoil from her touch that time. “I never considered this.”

“Sadly, bodies don't appear out of nowhere,” Hermione mused. “If it makes you feel better, they weren't even aware. I mean, you don't remember your life as a baby, right? No one does.”

“Don't try and logic me out of this,” he complained.

Lily let out a breath of amusement. “You're not a murderer, Harry.”

He lamely replied, “You don't get to decide that.”

“I can decide what's for dinner, though.” Lily made a show of contemplating, going as far to tap her chin as she looked away from his face, staring up at the ceiling. “What about what you hate _most_? That should teach you not to be a brat.”

“A brat?” he repeated, baffled.

“You're not listening to me,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm the wise old person here.”

Hermione nodded in agreement. “Yes, listen to Lily.”

“I've got the crown of being the most intelligent out of James and I, after all,” Lily proclaimed, haughtily raising her head up. “Remember to tell him he's an idiot next time you see him, Hermione. He'll take it if he's from you.”

“I'm not going to insult your husband,” Hermione denied.

“Well, neither is Harry,” Lily lamented. “How am I going to keep him in check when you two sweethearts don't have the heart to tell him how stupid he is? He tried to tell me I was the problem the other day.”

Harry held his hands up in a sign of surrender. “I don't want to get involved in your relationship problems.”

“You're a part of this now,” Lily proclaimed, pointing a finger at him. “There's no backing out, buddy. You need to chip in and give your vote on which television subscription service we should have.”

“...That's the argument?” Hermione questioned.

“Of course,” Lily said, putting her hands on her hips. “What do you think I am? Made of money? Please.”

Harry stared.

“Okay, maybe a bit,” Lily gave in with a dramatic sigh. “But it's the point of it all. I'm not paying for _everything_.”

“Watch it illegally?” he suggested.

Lily made a scandalised noise.

Hermione mused, “You live with a police officer.”

“You think I could afford everything before?” Harry scoffed. “Tom always—”

It was with the mention of his friend that Harry clammed up, the comfortableness he'd been feeling moments ago disappeared. He averted his eyes, wrapping his arms around his middle as he kept his mouth shut, abruptly ending the conversation.

Neither of them asked what was wrong with him.

Instead, Lily cleared her throat. “Does coffee sound good?”

“I'll help,” Hermione volunteered, touching Harry's shoulder on her way past.

They'd picked up on his mood and knew him well enough to leave him alone.

The smile that spread across his lips was bittersweet.

-x-

“This is... a bit much,” Harry remarked, taking in the decorated table.

The bouquet of flowers in the middle was fresh and in bloom despite it being the middle of winter, and the plates and cutlery that were set out were different to usual. The round table had enough seats for four people, yet the chair that usually had Lily's jacket on it had been taken away.

There was a handmade card propped up with his name on it.

“It's not for you,” James blurted.

He stared at his name in confusion.

“That is, yes,” James corrected, dramatically pulling Harry's chair out and gesturing for him to sit down. It was terribly awkward as James tried to push it under him as he sat down, resulting in Harry catching himself on the table. “I meant that we usually do this? It's sort of a tradition with our friends.”

“Your friends,” Harry repeated.

James undid a napkin with a flourish and placed it on Harry's lap. “They're out of the country right now. We're not trying to keep you a secret or anything.”

“That's the first I'm hearing of this,” he mused. “I was starting to think Alice was your only friend.”

“She might as well be,” James quipped. “I'm sorry for not telling you. It—it slips my mind that you don't know everything.”

Harry settled down adjusting the napkin on his lap for something to do with his hands.

“Would you like to meet them?” Lily asked, poking her head in from where she was fetching their drinks. “No pressure, Harry. We're not going to shove people on you, remember?”

“Maybe,” was his response.

“Maybe!” James beamed. “That's a good response.”

He blinked. “Is it?”

“Well, it's not a flat out no,” James pointed out. “If it helps, they've been our friends since school. They were there for your birth and everything—okay, that's weird. I don't know why I told you that.”

“So, they saw me wrinkly and covered in blood,” he muttered.

“And visited your room for your birthday,” Lily informed him, holding three glasses against her chest with one arm as she came in. “It was hard to keep them away.”

He didn't know how to feel about that. “Oh.”

“Harry,” James started, sounding a bit hesitant. “How much do you want to tell people?”

“About me?” he questioned. And when he got a nod in return, he admitted, “You can give them the basics, I guess. It'll explain why I'm not, like, brain dead.”

“So, can I make up any backstory I want for you?” James asked, starting to smile. “I'll change it every time, of course. We'll see how outrageous we can get it.”

Harry laughed. “Sure, if you want.”

“I'll start by saying you were in the circus,” Lily interjected. “You can't steal that one, James.”

James made a show of sighing. “I was going to go for stunt performer, but okay.”

“I don't think a sixteen-year-old could've been a stunt performer,” Harry mused.

“Not with that attitude,” James replied.

“We'll make the best of you yet,” Lily assured him, going as far as to pat the top of his head. It was a barely-there touch, gone as soon as she'd made contact with him. “Next up, your parents were thrill-seekers and you died from swimming with sharks.”

It was clear that the both of them were trying to gauge how comfortable he was with them now; from seeing whether he'd pull his hand away like he had in the hospital and whether he'd laugh sincerely at their jokes.

He was skittish, still.

“Don't make sharks the villains,” Harry protested.

“Of course not,” Lily immediately replied. “It was a faulty oxygen tank.”

He snorted.

Christmas had always been an awkward affair before.

It had never been like with Lily and James, spending their time at the dining table and gradually drinking cocktails that James had found the recipes for on the internet that he wanted to try, all three getting more intoxicated as the night continued.

Harry hadn't had so much alcohol before.

His tolerance was like Lily's, unfortunately.

And wasn't that _strange_?

It was so weird to look at these two people and realise that he shared something with them—more than the green eyes in the mirror and the curve of his nose. They'd barely spent any time together compared to the rest of his life, yet he could see some similarities in how their bodies functioned.

Neither of them had hay fever.

Harry didn't know whether to feel happy about that any more.

-x-

“You need a bucket list,” Hermione bluntly told him.

Harry frowned. “I've already died.”

“That's not my point!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “You—is there not anything you want to do? Harry, you only ever go out to eat cake.”

“I went to the hairdressers,” he pointed out.

“That's not for fun,” she argued.

“It was pretty fun,” Harry countered. “I got my head massaged while they were doing the shampoo _and_ I learned all the local gossip. It doesn't matter that I can't put any faces to names, I know that one of my neighbours is having an affair now.”

“Harry,” Hermione started, putting her hands on his shoulders and looking into his eyes. “What do you want to _do_?”

That was where he had to pause.

The calender marked three months since he'd woken up in his new body. He'd adjusted to the world, he thought; he was familiar enough with his phone, got on well with Lily and James to have inside jokes with them and live comfortably without walking around on his tiptoes, and he'd managed to acquire a friend that had started to know where the glasses were in the cupboards since she came over so much.

“I don't know,” he eventually replied, feeling a bit awkward.

“That's my point!” she insisted, her expression one that he couldn't quite pinpoint. “Haven't you—wasn't there something you wanted to do? Before?”

Before, she said.

That was the taboo topic that everyone avoided. Harry had since told Hermione what was important in his summary; that he'd been an orphan that hadn't been able to experience much.

It was a poor decision when he whispered, “I wanted to spend time with my friend.”

Hermione's expression crumbled. “I'm sorry for asking that.”

“It's cool,” Harry lamely replied, running his fingers through his hair. “It—the plan had always been to run away with him, I guess. We'd started planning it out.”

“That's never a good idea,” Hermione replied. “You'd get reported to the authorities.”

“I would've been kicked out at eighteen, so no,” he corrected. “And it wasn't like we were doing it on a whim with no money or plans. He—he was from a rich family.”

Hermione tentatively asked, “How old would he be now?”

“Twenty-one,” he murmured. “His birthday was a couple of weeks ago.”

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“You don't have to apologise for everything,” he burst out with, clenching a fist before he shoved it into his pocket. “This—it's not your fault. I don't need everyone saying sorry whenever I bring up what happened.”

Hermione breathed out audibly. “I'm not good at comforting people.”

“I don't want comfort,” he muttered, sounding petulant to his own ears. “You being here is enough.”

“Well, in that case,” Hermione started, gently bumping her shoulder against his. “How about we start a list of things you'd like to try? It doesn't have to be something as extreme as bungee-jumping. You don't need to give credit to James and Lily's crazy stories.”

He laughed. “I'm not into anything like that.”

“No?” she asked.

“Definitely not,” he confirmed. “I'm more of a... relax at home sort of person.”

“Yes, I can tell that,” she mused. “You haven't left the house in a fortnight.”

He protested, “I walked you to your car!”

Hermione stared.

He deflated. “That doesn't count?”

“Not at all,” she said.

“Well, that sounds like a you problem,” he muttered. “It totally counts for me. It's the extent of my exercise, too.”

“Aren't you supposed to be keeping in shape?” she demanded.

Harry happily gestured to his chest. “Do I look unhealthy to you?”

“That's not the point,” Hermione replied.

He snorted. “You just don't want to say I look good.”

“Those words would burn my tongue,” she agreed.

It was with the idea that Harry needed to experience more of the world that they ended up purchasing train tickets the following day. When Hermione informed Lily and James of her plan, they were entirely supportive, shoving money into Harry's hand and promising to set him up with a card and his own bank account sometime soon.

The amount they gave him was still overwhelming.

With his favourite scarf gloves picked out, he met Hermione at the train station in the city. She had coffees for the both of them ready and waiting when he'd arrived, an air of confidence around her as she searched for the right carriage for their seats.

“I barely ever went on the train before,” he blurted when they'd sat down.

“No?” Hermione questioned.

“It was a small village,” he admitted, holding the cup with two hands, able to feel the heat through his gloves. “I didn't have enough money to go to the nearest city.”

“Your rich friend didn't pay for you?” she asked.

He was a bit affronted at that. “I didn't let him.”

Hermione pointed out, “You let me.”

“I didn't realise what you were doing!” he exclaimed, pointing a finger of accusation at her and almost spilling his drink. “I'll get you back, don't worry. I'm going to buy anything you look at.”

She quipped, “Are you offering to be my sugar daddy?”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “No.”

“That's good,” she replied with a laugh. “I'd have to break it to you that I'm not interested in you that way.”

“We're friends,” he said. Then, after a brief pause, he quietly added on, “My only friend.”

“You're my only friend, too,” she offered, showing him a shy smile that reached her eyes. “That's not too lame for me to say, is it? I mean, you have a good reason for not having anyone.”

“I'm sure you do,” he assured her.

Hermione grimaced. “I'm not sure about that.”

“I don't care,” he blurted in an attempt to comfort her. “You're—you're cool, that's all that matters to me. And Lily and James really like you. You can probably count them as friends.”

She laughed. “They are nice.”

“Yes,” he agreed, nodding his head. “I'm still trying to get used to that. It catches me off-guard a lot.”

“That they're nice to you?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

He blew onto his drink before taking a sip, stalling. “I didn't have the best upbringing.”

“That sounds like a bit of an understatement,” she mused.

It was Harry that broke the unspoken rule between them. “What are your parents like?”

“Dead,” Hermione replied.

He almost choked on his drink. “What?”

“Was that too blunt?” she questioned, running a hand through her hair and pulling a few strands out of her loose braid in the process. “I didn't know how to tell you.”

He choked into his hand. “I thought you were just really independent.”

“Oh, I am,” Hermione confirmed with a smile that looked quite forced when it didn't make the corner of her eyes crinkle. “I have to be. I left my foster family when I turned eighteen.”

“They didn't die recently?” he asked.

“I was too little to remember it,” Hermione said, cupping her cup with two hands and staring down at the lid as she swirled the contents carefully. “It's a bit of a blur from back then. My whole childhood is, really, but that's not anything new for me.”

It was clear from her body language that she was upset.

They were in a public space, surrounded by strangers within their carriage on the train, and Hermione was opening up more than talking about her favourite audiobook. It showed the process of their relationship, though it also highlighted how terrible Harry was at comforting others.

He'd rarely been the one of the end of it, so he didn't have much experience.

Tom's tactics wouldn't work on her.

When they were settled down in a café they hadn't been to before, Harry brought the topic back up.

“Mine died when I was a kid, too,” he offered, giving her a strained smile as he reached up and scratched his cheek. “The other me or whatever—before.”

“Oh,” Hermione breathed. “I didn't realise it was that early.”

“I jumped around foster care before landing my last family when I was eleven,” Harry summarised. “That's why I was planning to run away, remember? I knew they wouldn't take care of me any more.”

“Mine would've,” she admitted, scratching her thumb along the handle of her mug. “I'm not embarrassed to admit that they love me but—but I wanted to make my own way, you know? Although it might not look like I have much, I'm happy.”

He lamely said, “That's cool.”

She snorted. “Cool, right.”

“It is!” Harry insisted, talking a bit too loud. “You've got a part-time job _and_ a side-job that pays you out of the ass. What more could you want?”

She joked, “Well, I got the wish to have a friend.”

With a laugh, he asked, “That was your birthday wish, was it?”

“I asked Santa for it, actually,” she corrected.

He squinted. “We met before Christmas.”

“He was really late to deliver.”

-x-

The forum had a request section.

Sometimes, it was for jobs for those like Hermione—for a fee, of course. There was rarely anything done for free, unless it was a comment underneath a post saying that they'd like to offer their services. Otherwise, it was a way to do commissions and take advantage of their magic to make money.

It made sense.

James could've ran a lost-and-found business by retrieving lost items, yet he'd chosen to go into the police force for a better cause. He wasn't motivated by money from the absurd amount he and Lily had saved up and inherited.

Learning that they had more money than they needed didn't come as a surprise.

Lily made a living from hers by owning a flower-shop. Unfortunately, she had no skills with presentations or wrapping bouquets, so she was solely in charge of keeping the flowers fresh and nice-looking while her employees did the rest. For a small town, her shop was surprisingly popular.

Harry came along one day to visit, looking around the store wide-eyed. It was strange to be able to lean forward and sniff the plants without his eyes starting to water.

“Don't people question why your flowers aren't... dead?” he questioned.

Lily's smile was all teeth. “If you start saying scientific stuff, their expressions glaze over and they accept anything to make the conversation end.”

“So, you lie,” he concluded.

Lily beamed. “Yes!”

“What about James?” he asked, touching a petal and resisting the urge to press his nail through it. “Do people think he's really good at his job?”

“Oh, yes,” she confirmed. “I don't really hear a lot of it because he doesn't like talking about such... unhappy things, you know? From what I can tell, his bosses think he has a gift for figuring out clues.”

“He bullshits, too,” he said.

Lily laughed. “Of course.”

“Lying is part of the job, I guess,” he mused, following Lily through into the back room to inspect all of the tools. Her employees weren't due for half an hour, and he'd planned to have Hermione pick him up outside by then. “How do you deal with it all?”

“It's second nature to me now,” Lily said, pulling her long hair into a ponytail and missing a few strands. “You don't have to feel bad from lying about every little thing. Who cares if Karen down the street thinks I give my flowers steroids? She can't prove anything and I don't even like her, so fuck her.”

“...You don't like Karen?” he asked.

Lily huffed. “Karen is a twat.”

“Right, okay,” he replied, a bit stunned. “I'll remember that.”

“If she says a word to you, turn around and run the other way,” Lily demanded.

He blinked. “Sure.”

“Promise me,” she said.

With a confused smile, he held out his little finger.

Lily hooked hers around his, grinning widely.

“You're strange,” he remarked.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” she replied, winking at him. “It would be terribly dull if we were all the same, right?”

“Not everyone has a vendetta against Karen,” he said.

“Correct,” Lily agreed, nodding her head. “That's my main characteristic. Lily Potter, hater of Karen.”

He smiled as he asked, “You really told her you gave your plants steroids?”

Lily sniffed. “I was new at this, okay!”

“So, it was a while ago.”

Lily exclaimed, “She won't let me live it down!”

Hermione arrived as the employees did, able to witness the awkward scene of Lily struggling with what to refer to Harry as before claiming him as a friend.

“See, you've got other friends,” Hermione joked as they climbed into her car.

Harry buried his face into his hands, embarrassed.

She reached over and patted his back.

They were going somewhere else this time. Rather than change trains three times to get to their destination, Hermione had offered to drive despite the busy roads. She'd prepared by getting a playlist ready a few days before, confirming each and every song with him and demanding that he check that they were in a good order.

She was passionate about a lot of things.

Competitive, too.

“And then they stole my customer,” Hermione ranted, slapping her hand against the steering wheel and frowning as she paid attention to the road. “I'd already gotten half of the payment, too. I wasn't able to refund it before they started slandering me on the forum for being a scammer.”

“Who?” Harry asked.

“Weren't you listening?” she demanded, whirling her head around fast enough to make her hair move. “ _Meliora_! They've been doing this for years.”

It was without shame that he admitted, “I blanked out.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“It was a good song,” Harry said, gesturing to where her phone was plugged in and resting on his lap. “I was wondering whether I'd heard something like it before, and then I was off on a tangent in my head, completely ignoring you.”

She sniffed. “Admit it, you don't care about my problems.”

“I care!” he insisted. “Tell me, I'm listening.”

She kept eye contact as she turned the volume down.

Harry smiled sheepishly.

“It's another user,” Hermione said with a sigh. “I advertise my side-job on there—it's much better than trying to do it in person, you know? No one's going to take me seriously when I look like a child.”

“You don't look like a child,” he told her.

She deadpanned, “Harry, I got asked for my ID for painkillers last week.”

He patted her shoulder in sympathy.

Meliora was one of the more expensive ones offering their services, yet the options were wide and included most things, according to the reviews. Unlike Hermione's which only included knowing the contents of books, they stated they could do anything for the right price.

“Anything?” he queried.

“Yes,” Hermione grumbled. “Yet they take my customers!”

“Tough business,” Harry awkwardly offered in an attempt to comfort her. “And you're really fast. I wonder how he beat you.”

“Because the books they want actually have to make it in the post to me,” she said tiredly. “It's not _my_ fault that they don't want to pay for next day delivery. I'm not scamming because I live across the country.”

He patted her shoulder again.

Hermione ranted until there was red on the top of her cheeks, much more heated about her feud than about another driver cutting her off abruptly.

Harry let her.

It was good to rant sometimes.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, fiddling with her hair. “I needed that.”

He gave her a thumbs up. “Any time.”

“Your turn to rant, if you want,” she replied as they got out of her car. “I'm all ears.”

“I'm bored,” he said.

There was a moment of silence.

Hermione furrowed her brow. “Go on.”

“No, that was it,” Harry replied with a laugh, reaching up and touching his hair. It was soft, well-cared for with the fancy shampoo and conditioner that James liked to splurge on. “I don't know what I'm doing. I wait for you to text me in the mornings so I can make a plan for the day.”

“...That's sad.”

“You didn't have to say it like that!” he spluttered.

“You're like a puppy I've abandoned,” Hermione said, touching his arm. “Didn't you say you were playing a game?”

He shrugged. “I got bored.”

“Read a book,” she suggested.

“I'm bad at concentrating,” he replied.

She frowned. “Go for a walk.”

“I'm perfectly healthy, thank you,” Harry stated, puffing his chest out. “Can't you see I'm in tip-top form?”

There was nothing sincere about her tone. “Sure, Harry.”

“No wonder you abandoned me,” he proclaimed, pointing an accusing finger her way. “You don't love me enough to give me compliments! I have a praise kink, you know.”

Hermione made a choked noise. “Excuse me?”

He waved his hands around frantically. “It was a joke!”

“That's more than I needed to know about you,” she said, taking a purposeful step back and putting distance between them as she looked at him with wide eyes. “My dog's a pervert.”

“Having a kink doesn't make you a pervert,” he muttered.

“Defensive, I see,” she teased.

Harry's face felt hot.

Hermione's plan for that day was to eat desserts until they felt sick. She'd brought him to a restaurant that was entirely dessert-based, appealing to his sweet tooth that he was suddenly indulging too much in.

Lily and James made him fancy coffee with syrup in it without him asking for it, Hermione liked to visit cafés and bakeries to get something sweet since he'd wanted to try those cakes when they'd first met, and there were suddenly juices and other drinks that he liked in the fridge that hadn't been there before.

He was being spoiled.

Harry didn't want to push away their affection. Lily and James were awkward with him, yet it seemed that their love language was in their actions rather than words; with how they did things for each other on a regular basis, and that was being extended to him.

It made his chest feel warm.

When was the last time he'd experienced that?

They had a nice seat by the window. The music wasn't too loud in the restaurant, though it wasn't very busy in the middle of winter.

Harry had opted for a hot chocolate, but it was too sickening to drink all at once. The glass it was nice, though.

Hermione took pictures of their food and drinks, positioning them nicely before they had any.

“Can you send me that?” Harry blurted.

She blinked. “Yes?”

“To show Lily and James,” he said despite her not prompting him for an answer. “It's—this sounds really lame. I just—you know I don't go out much.”

“Oh, now you're accepting that?” she teased. “Sure, I don't mind sending you it. Want to add a picture of us to it?”

They were both equally as awkward at taking pictures. Their smiles were stiff as their cheeks were almost pressed together, and they both burst into laughter at their tense faces.

“I like it,” he said, setting it as his phone's background.

Hermione laughed loudly.

It was a nice day.

That wasn't a change with Hermione—she had a relaxing air around her, one where when the conversation had lulls of silence, it didn't feel tense and awkward. Harry didn't feel compelled to fill in the blanks by blurting out anything, happy to simplyexchange smiles as they ate and savoured the food.

He had sensitive teeth, it turned out.

“That's new,” Harry said, touching his mouth.

“I never asked if they had a dentist see you,” Hermione said, leaning forward in her seat and squinting. “Your teeth are very straight, Harry. And white.”

“Maybe they whitened them,” he mused. “Gotta look good while I'm sleeping beauty, right?”

She snorted. “I bet you woke up with greasy.”

“I was very clean,” he protested.

She raised her eyebrows.

“It's one of the reasons I was confused at first,” he admitted. Then, when he realised how that sounded, he hurriedly added on, “I had really thin hair before, not that I didn't _shower_! It always felt greasy within a day. And most dry shampoo made me itchy.”

Hermione hummed, a drawn out sound that when paired with her smile seemed entirely teasing.

He huffed.

It was when they were leaving the restaurant that Harry felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.

His attention was elsewhere; focused on Hermione as she rambled on, moving her hands along with her words which proved she was enthusiastic about it, and he was nodding his head and making the right noises to encourage her.

There was a face he knew walking towards them.

At first, all Harry could do was stop and stare, wide-eyed as he took him in. From his facial features to the pale skin with equally pale hair that looked like he didn't have eyebrows until closer inspection, all of that combined couldn't have been any other than—

Harry made a choked noise.

Hermione touched his arm in concern. “What's wrong?”

The man glanced at him before walking past, not giving him a second look.

That was his face.

Harry didn't think it through when he pivoted on the spot, rushing forward to grab onto the man's arm as he demanded, “Who are you?”

The cheeks weren't as full as they had been before; age had thinned them out, added some extra height from the years, and his attire was better quality than his body had ever seen before.

His heart was thundering in his chest.

The man shook him off with a look of disgust, walking away.

Harry stared down at his hand, the sound of his pulse echoing in his head and drowning out Hermione's concern.


	3. 03

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **previously:** harry learned more about magic, hermione became his first friend and ranted about her feud on the forum, and harry saw someone that looked like him.
> 
> miscommunication? in my fanfic??? i don't think so!! i hope this isn't too boring for you guys;; i'm not going into detail about side characters that aren't important, i won't be writing every scene, and a lot of time is going to pass before tom appears in the next chapter.

_Harry Potter © J. K. Rowling_

Harry Potheur was dead.

That body had been cremated. The car accident reported on the news had included a picture of the bloodied car at the very crossing he'd been walking on. There was no possible way that he was alive and walking once Harry's soul had left.

Hermione's theory was that he was projecting, seeing a somewhat similar face and panicking.

Harry couldn't deny that completely.

It was embarrassing after Hermione had explained what had happened to Lily and James, expressing her concern that he needed to rest after that incident.

“I'm fine,” he tried to say.

James response to that was to bundle blankets on him, wrapping him up until he was sweating.

Lily turned the heating down to help instead of taking them off.

From their urging, he started to see a therapist once a week. Although Lily and James weren't trying to convince him to get a job, he figured that having a consistent schedule would help rather than having him wake up at random hours each day.

Hermione was on board for that, of course. She loved organising everything, happily showing Harry her journals where she planned out her time each week the first time he visited her flat.

It wasn't decorated very well. She had the necessities, only two cups in the cupboard, and it was clear that lack of visitors meant that she'd never splurged with her money to buy anything else. The bookshelf, nicely organised desk, and up-to-date computer was all that she needed in her eyes.

They mostly met up at Lily and James' home, though when the couple needed some alone time, Hermione offered up her flat, visibly embarrassed whenever she realised that she didn't have much. When they'd ordered takeaway for dinner, her face had flushed red from not having two knives.

“How do you only have one?” he mused, curious.

Hermione touched her cheek. “The other broke.”

“Broke,” he repeated, dubious. “Dare I ask how long ago this was?”

“I don't even know,” she admitted with a laugh. “I'll replace it. It's been on my list for a while.”

And with that, she happily pointed to the whiteboard that was lovingly placed on the fridge door. It had straight lines on it that could've only been done with the help of a ruler.

He squinted. “Does that say jam?”

“Strawberry jam,” she confirmed.

“How long has that been there?” he asked.

“...A while,” she muttered.

Harry dragged her out shopping.

Unlike when Lily had shoved the laptop in his lap and demanded that he pick out what he wanted, Hermione was there in person, touching and inspecting every little detail. The cutlery he'd pointed out first wasn't good enough because some were chipped, while the others looked cheap and weren't to her taste.

Hermione was very picky.

Harry was patient.

Rather than be annoyed as they wandered to the third store in a row, he was amused, purposely pointing out the worst things just to get Hermione to scowl and tell him that he wasn't taking it seriously.

It said something about his acting skills when Hermione stared at him blankly, trying to tell whether he was lying.

“You're terrifying,” she accused, shoving the neon-coloured tea towel back on the shelf. “I pity the day your partner tries to get you to pick everything out for your home.”

“I thought I was a dog,” he said, trying not to laugh. “You don't normally ask your pet for their opinion, do you?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I've never had a pet.”

“Same.” He bumped his shoulder gently against hers. “Let's co-parent a fish.”

She snorted. “No, thank you.”

“What? I thought that was a good idea,” he replied, happily picking up an apron and spinning around to show it to her. “And we can get matching fish clothes to show our support. There's so much to choose from.”

She pulled a face. “I don't like fish.”

“You like to eat fish,” he pointed out, putting the apron against his chest and starting to model it for her.

“Exactly,” Hermione said, snatching the apron and shoving it back on the shelf. She'd barely moved her hand away before she pulled the apron out, refolding it properly before putting it back in its rightful place. “I want to eat my dinner in peace, not look at our child staring at me in horror.”

He beamed. “Our child, is it?”

Hermione sighed. “No.”

“You've already said it, you can't take it back!” he exclaimed, happily wrapping an arm around her shoulder to pull her into a half-hearted hug. “We're parents now.”

She corrected, “We need a child to actually be called that, Harry.”

“Let's go!”

They ended up with a plant each after seeing all the work and equipment that would need to be bought for a fish tank. Then there was the fact that Hermione thought the fake plants would look too tacky, while Harry kept laughing at the little ornaments that could be put in for decoration.

The stop at a garden centre had them picking out matching pots to put their succulents in. Hermione had been against getting anything too big that would look out of place in her home, while Harry was overwhelmed and didn't know anything other than what Lily had told him.

Harry had the plants on his lap on the drive back, happily keeping them steady.

“They're not actual children, Harry,” Hermione said, fondness clear in her voice. “You can put them on the floor.”

“And accidentally kick them? I think _not_.”

Lily had laughed when Hermione told the tales of Harry's horrible sense of fashion later.

“It's not fashion if it's not clothes, is it?” he asked.

Lily shrugged. “Would you prefer we said that you have no taste?”

“That doesn't count,” he protested. “I was doing it on purpose.”

James hummed. “I'm sure that's it.”

“It is!” he insisted.

The succulent ended up in the windowsill in the living room, proudly on display. Lily had promised not to touch it with her magic unless it started to wither away, while Hermione had boldly claimed that hers would last longer because she planned everything out, unlike him.

“Children are unpredictable,” he retorted. “You can't plan everything for him.”

“This is getting too weird,” Hermione replied, trying not hold in her laughter. “Can we refer to them as plants, please? I'm going to wake up in a cold sweat thinking I actually have a kid one of these days.”

“Fine,” he agreed. “I call refer to them as the succs.”

Hermione hung up on him.

He laughed loudly.

It was his fifth month being awake when Lily and James started to invite their friends over. By that point, Hermione was comfortable enough to let herself in after texting to say that she was there. So, when there was a knock at the door during the few hours before Lily came home from work, Harry cautiously answered it, still finding it somewhat awkward to talk to the neighbours that came wandering over.

He knew which neighbour was having the affair after they'd come to the door, asking for their ball from the garden.

It was an understatement to say he was surprised when he answered it only to be greeted by a happy exclamation of his name from an unknown person.

James apologised profusely for it later.

“It's cool,” Harry replied, amused. “He wasn't any trouble.”

Somehow, Harry found himself being roped into sitting down and talking to whoever came over. For the most part, it was two men that frequently came over for dinner, either assisting in the kitchen or bringing food over already made for everyone.

They were nice.

The only slip up came when they referred to Harry as Lily and James' son.

It wasn't that it was wrong—but all three of them had exchanged wide-eyed glances, caught off-guard and not knowing how to respond.

Their relationship wasn't like that.

Harry hadn't had a good parental figure in his life, and these two he was suddenly with seemed more like friends. They'd joke around and suggest things for him to do, not reprimand him and try and control his movements.

The bickering between them couldn't be counted as an argument.

Harry was given access to two banks; his own that they'd deposited money in and would do so every month, and the family one that he could use for any large purchases. Although they said he didn't need to check for permission to use that card, he didn't feel comfortable using it.

Hermione pointed out there wasn't much difference from being given all the money in hand like before.

“It's harder to rob you this way,” she mused. “Walking around with your pockets bulging because of your wallet wasn't a good look.”

He made an offended noise. “You're saying I looked bad?”

“Very,” she teased, reaching out and giving his shoulder a sympathetic pat. “It's okay, we'll buy you some fashion magazines.”

“Touch them and become a stylist,” he joked. Then, when it struck him that she really could do that, he remarked, “Your magic is pretty cool, isn't it? I hope mine's actually more useful than just seeing in the dark.”

“It's okay,” she replied. “I'd like something more... controllable? Being able to turn a gift on and off seems like an advantage.”

A bit amused, he said, “You can't have loved books that much.”

“I did,” Hermione replied, tucking some stray hairs behind her ear. “I always used to stay up with a torch underneath my duvet to read. Of course, my parents would see it when they came in to check on me. That never occurred to me when I was little.”

“I always had to share a room,” he revealed. “At almost all the homes. As long as it was another boy, the people that came to check on us said it was fine.”

“And in your last one?”

“Oh, yeah,” he confirmed with a nod. “It used to be for the family's eldest daughter, so it was painted pink and I _hated_ it. Not because I hate pink! I really like pink, but hot pink is a no go for me, Hermione. It's so obnoxious.”

She was struggling not to laugh at him. “You tried to make me get hot pink cutlery.”

“It would suit you,” he replied without missing a beat.

“Are you calling me obnoxious?” she demanded, jabbing a finger into his chest. “That's so _rude_! After everything I've done for you—”

“You forget to water your succ yesterday,” he interrupted.

Hermione scrunched her facial features up. “Please, don't call it that.”

“You can't stop me,” he replied, singing the words. “I'm a co-owner. I have every right.”

“Let's go back to you lamenting about the colour pink,” she proposed waving her hand in a gesture for him to continue. “I'm very invested in this. What's next? You have a vendetta against the colour violet?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” he retorted. “It's lilac that I hate.”

“Silly me,” Hermione said. “Forgive me for my blunder.”

“Absolutely not,” he replied, giving her a disapproving look. “I thought you knew me, but apparently not.”

“I can't actually read you like a book,” she answered back.

Harry burst out into laughter. “I can't believe you actually said that!”

“I have more of a right than anyone else,” Hermione answered, haughtily raising her head up. “It makes sense for _me_. Have you even read a book in the past few months, Harry?”

He smiled. “Yes, your journal.”

“That doesn't count.”

“Yes, it does,” he insisted.

“It doesn't have a title,” she shot back.

“That's the requirement?” he asked, letting out a laugh. “That doesn't seem right.”

Hermione laughed along with him.

They grew closer.

It was easier when they didn't have any other friends. Hermione was more than happy to meet up with him almost daily after her part-time job, sometimes leaving early to do commissions for her side-job when they came through, though that didn't stop her from texting him to express her frustration from the condition of the books that came in the post.

She was fun.

Hermione liked to do things her own way. If they didn't follow her plans, she got stressed and defended how she'd taken everything into account when making them, and more often than not, Harry let her do as she pleased so he'd see her smile.

He wasn't the type to plan.

Harry went with the flow; a text from Hermione in the morning deciding his day, vague plans they'd made in off-handed remarks becoming full-blown plans from her own doing, and the most he did in advance was work out what times he'd take the bus to make it to his therapist on time.

He'd always been like that.

The only time he turned up early was to meet Tom in the summer, wanting to spend all the time with him he could until it was dark outside.

The weather started to get warmer.

Harry ditched the warm sweaters for lighter clothing, keeping an umbrella in his bag at all times since Hermione often forgot hers when they went out together. After her suggestion that he needed a hobby of sorts, he'd started to visit her book-store while she was working, leaving at the end to go out for dinner with her somewhere, letting Lily and James have a few nights alone.

Hermione never told him that he was spending too much time with her.

“Honestly,” she'd said, putting her hands on her hips. “Who else would I spend time with? No one.”

“That's a bit sad,” he blurted.

She laughed. “Aren't you the same?”

“Are you calling me a loser?” he asked, putting a hand to his chest. “I'm offended.”

“What else can we be classed as?” Hermione asked. “You can't tell me you never got called that in school.”

“I was called a lot of things,” he remarked, thoughtfully tapping his finger against his chin. “People thought they were clever by asking where my eyebrows went all the time.”

“...What?” Hermione questioned.

He laughed. “I was very blond.”

Hermione squinted. “You were?”

“Oh, yes,” he confirmed, getting out his phone and typing into the browser to find his old Facebook page. He turned the device around to show her the profile picture. “Behold, my old self.”

She leaned in, resting against his arm to see it better. “You look so young.”

“I still do,” he pointed out. “I'm baby-faced forever.”

“Even more so here,” she said.

“Well, yeah,” he agreed. “I was, like, fourteen. Of course I looked young.”

“Right.” Hermione straightened out, standing upright and fiddling with her hair. “I forget that you skipped a few years sometimes. You'd tell me if I ever say something wrong to upset you, wouldn't you?”

“Of course,” he responded immediately, tucking the device back into his bag. “I can't be losing my only friend again, can I? That's something I'll never recover from.”

“Dramatic,” she accused, a fond smile reaching her eyes.

He beamed. “There always needs to be a drama queen in a friend group.”

“What am I?” she asked.

He pretended to shoot her. “Nerd, of course.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

-x-

Alice kept her promise for coming for wine nights.

Harry sat down with her and Lily, happily listening to them gossip and chipping in with his own thoughts now and then. It was fun to see them snicker and end up with tears in their eyes from a joke that wasn't funny in the first place.

James was booed and shooed away when he tried to join without offering them any food.

After he'd brought them snacks, he was allowed to stay.

Harry ended up with the plate shoved his way with the three of them demanding that he eat before having another glass.

It was a nice memory despite the headache in the morning.

Their other friends didn't come over to drink. Harry continued to be beckoned down to talk to them, often having food being given to him during that time too, so it wasn't a surprise when he started to put on weight.

Hermione didn't understand the problem. “You could do with gaining a bit of weight.”

“A bit,” he repeated, exasperated. “I've never had a body like this before!”

“You've hardly got any fat,” she corrected. “You're simply used to being underweight.”

“It's weird,” was his lame response. “This is weird.”

“Go to the gym, then,” she proposed.

He was startled. “I can do that?”

“Of course you can,” Hermione responded before starting to list off the health benefits that weren't about losing weight. With all the pros and cons that she was telling him, she pointed out that Lily and James would be the ones technically paying for the membership, so his only problem would be getting there in the first place. “That would solve your problem.”

“Maybe I'll start running instead,” he said.

“And get lost?” she responded. “I don't trust your sense of direction.”

“I got lost _one_ time—”

“And what if you get mugged?” Hermione demanded. “Be a rich kid and go to an expensive gym. Live the dream.”

“Why is that the dream?” he questioned.

“Well, it's not mine,” she responded. “It has to be someone's.”

He shrugged. “Not mine either.”

“You're still going,” she told him.

It should've been expected that Hermione would go behind his back to tell Lily and James their plans. A few days later, he was presented with a new gym membership card and a personal trainer when he sluggishly came down for breakfast, not quite awake enough to respond more than asking what was going on.

He called Hermione on her break at work to say, “If I'm suffering this, you're coming with me.”

And before she could complain, he paid for her to get the same benefits as him.

They were equally as exhausted after their first session. Hair wet from the shower, loose clothing doing nothing to make their figures look good, they trudged back to Hermione's car, worn out.

“I'm going to regret this in the morning,” she lamented.

“You?” Harry questioned, gesturing to him. “I'm still a newborn deer. I've barely learned to walk.”

She snorted. “That doesn't work with you.”

“I'm a deer, Hermione,” he insisted.

“Okay, dear,” she replied, patting his knee.

He huffed. “Thank you.”

They kept it up.

Lily and James snickered at how equally exhausted they were after each session, though the benefits started to become clear after a few weeks.

Harry wasn't winded from running up the stairs to his bedroom any more—which had been embarrassing when he'd ran up to answer his phone once sounded out of breath—and while he didn't try and monitor his diet or cut out all the sugar that was being thrown at him, there were some healthy changes.

Hermione had to drag him out to keep her company to buy new clothes.

His input wasn't appreciated when he kept pointing out the worst prints, telling her they brought out the colour of her eyes.

“I'm never trusting you,” she proclaimed before throwing her bag at him, stomping off to try out her clothes in the changing room.

While she was gone, he ran off to buy an offensive shirt, gifting it to her later.

She glared at him.

Harry smiled back.

He had never had a friend around for so long. When Tom's family came to the village for the break between school, they'd be hip-to-hip from morning until the sun was set when Harry had to begrudgingly return to his family. For that short time of being together, it didn't compare to Hermione coming round with medicine when he had a blocked nose, actively trying to prevent his cold from getting worse.

And then he felt bad for being grateful for that.

It wasn't that he was betraying Tom—that was a ridiculous thought. Tom was his friend in the past that had been there for a month and a half, sometimes only for a few days until he came back a week later, missing Harry's birthday.

Hermione was a constant.

She was there, nudging him gently to improve his lifestyle and despite how much she complained, she tagged along with him, hating their gym sessions more and more.

Tom wouldn't have answered his calls in the morning.

It took a while for him to realise it was bitterness that he was feeling.

For as much as his life had revolved around Tom, Harry was realising how much he'd been shut out from the rest of it. He'd never been told the name of the school nor had he ever met Tom's parents beyond seeing a glimpses of them when he waited outside the home he'd never been invited into.

With Tom, he'd always stayed outside, even if it was raining. Sharing an umbrella had been one of his favourites when Tom would favour putting it over him, causing Tom to end up with one of his shoulders wet towards the end.

There had been affection there, their last day together had proved that. Harry's crush had been validated and reciprocated without him having to take the first step.

He'd always thought that it would be far too ambitious to try and pursue something between them when Tom was barely there. What good was a relationship when they only saw each other for month and a half?

Perhaps, Tom would've started to answer his phone more instead of texting to ask if it was important in his prim and proper way of typing.

Hermione liked to say that his way of thinking was still that of a stereotypical teenager.

“I'm not full of angst,” he denied.

“Harry, you looked like you were going to cry because you spilled your drink the other day,” she told him, raising her eyebrows. “And instead of clearing it up, you stared at it and almost had a meltdown.”

He shifted on the spot. “I was thinking about whether I was going to get hit for it.”

“If Lily or James ever did that, I'd go to the police for you,” she assured him, not pestering him to explain his backstory to that comment. “And you can stay at my place any time you want.”

He smiled. “Even when you're at work?”

“You can keep my plant company,” she agreed. “Do you want the spare key?”

He was taken aback. “It's a bit too soon for that, isn't it?”

She waved a hand. “It's not like I have anything valuable in there.”

“I've seen your computer,” he reminded her.

“Replaceable,” she replied. “And bold of you to assume that I haven't backed everything up. Honestly, how irresponsible do you think I am?”

“You can't turn me being considerate into an insult!” he exclaimed, aghast. “I'm trying to stop you from being too trusting. I could still be a murderer.”

“I thought I was the murderer?” she mused.

Harry sighed. “Fine, we can both be murderers.”

“I don't think you've got it in you,” Hermione said, patting his shoulder in sympathy. “You can barely pick up the weights at the gym. How are you going to clean up your crime?”

“I'll hire someone else to do that,” he announced with a grin. “I'm rich now, right?”

She laughed. “Why are you asking me?”

“I need confirmation,” he said.

“You're definitely rich,” she agreed.

He gave her a thumbs up. “Want to spend my rich money on dinner?”

“Can we get seafood?” Hermione questioned.

“For you, sure,” he agreed, reaching up and ruffling her hair.

She slapped his hand away with a huff.

-x-

Harry's birthday party started off with him crying.

Well, that wasn't quite right. He'd woken up in the morning normally, trudging downstairs in his pyjamas with his phone in his hand, only to be startled at the bottom of the stairs by loud words and a party popper being shot into his face.

Harry yelped, stumbling and falling back on the stairs while his phone went flying from his hand. One of his eyes was irritated and red, and when he looked blearily to see Lily's sheepish smile as she offered a hand out to help him up, he couldn't help but laugh.

The laughter made more tears appear in his eyes.

“I'm crying because you bullied me,” he said, sniffling for good measure.

Lily awkwardly pushed his hair away from his face to inspect whether there was any damage done. “I think you're okay.”

“You think?” he asked. “Not all injuries are visible, I'll have you know.”

“Your dramatics are still in tact, I see,” James remarked.

Harry held up his hands defensively. “Any more party poppers?”

James happily pointed out where he'd thrown them from Harry being attacked the first time.

“I didn't attack you!” Lily exclaimed, offended. “I'd _never_ do that.”

“You can't gaslight me,” he said, pointing an accusatory finger her way. “I know what just happened.”

“Harry,” James started, crouching down and picking up the forgotten phone, turning it around to show the shattered screen. “I think someone else has it worse than you.”

He snorted. “My phone doesn't have feelings.”

“If your succ does, then so does your phone,” James countered, trying to turn on the device, only for it to not respond. “I'll order you another one. Are you fine with the same model?”

“Anything's fine,” he said.

“The same, then,” James said, putting the phone on the table to keep it safely out of the way. “If I promise that no one else will attack you, will you put your fists away? I'm starting to sweat nervously from seeing you so prepared to kick my ass.”

Harry laughed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Is that better?”

“It would've been if you had underwear on under your pyjamas, but all right,” James remarked.

His face felt hot. “Don't _look_!”

James laughed loudly.

Lily jabbed her husband with her elbow. “Stop teasing him.”

“He makes it too easy!” James exclaimed.

It earned him a glare.

Harry put his hands to his blushing cheeks, trying to look pathetic as he said, “If you're going to bully me, I'll run away to Hermione's.”

“It's a bit too soon for you two to run away together,” Lily remarked. “Barely enough for a baby bump to show.”

He pulled a face. “Did you have to say that?”

Lily started to say, “As a certified teenaged pregnancy survivor—”

“Who certified that?” he asked.

“Me, I deserve an award for it,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I'm just saying—”

“I'm not even dating Hermione,” Harry interrupted again, a bit wide-eyed. “You're not trying to give me the talk, are you? I know I skipped a few years, but I still learned that in school.”

Lily cleared her throat. “I'm just saying—”

He blurted, “I am very gay.”

“That's nice,” James said, clapping his hand on Harry's shoulder without hesitation. “Want some cake?”

He nodded. “I want cake.”

Unlike the single slice he'd expected, it was a whole cake with two tiers, complete with candles on top. Harry had to sit down at the dining table as Lily tried to use a lighter to light the candles, yet the first one turned out to be some sort of sparkler, causing her to be startled and drop the lighter on the floor.

They all stared at the rug in relief when it was completely fine.

“James!” she complained, turning the accusations to him.

James held his hands up in surrender. “I didn't even buy them!”

“They were in the drawer!” she exclaimed, gesturing wildly to the kitchen. “I wouldn't have bought them!”

“I don't even like sparklers,” James retorted, picking up the lighter with a huff. “Why would you put that on a cake? It just looks like a mess.”

The conclusion was that it was one of their friends.

Lily was too paranoid about the rest of the candles, plucking them out and fetching one that she knew was safe from the kitchen.

It was a half-melted one that said thirty.

“Thank you for being here, now that I'm middle-aged,” Harry joked, trying not to smile awkwardly for the phone that was being pointed his way to take a picture. He was as photogenic as ever. “Time's gone by so much, it feels like I've barely been here any time at all.”

“Okay, buddy,” James said with a laugh. “Stop being a prat and blow it out, yeah?”

Lily clapped loudly when he blew out the candles.

Harry grinned right back at them, cheeks starting to hurt from how happy he was. There was something so comfortable about being with the two of them; he didn't feel pressured to live up to harsh expectations when they were so blunt about wanting nothing more than for him to be happy.

He could've gotten away with never lifting a finger and doing nothing around the home. Then again, that was practically what he was doing with them doting on him so much.

“Seriously,” he said, feeling a bit awkward as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I—thank you. I haven't had this before.”

“You'll be using that candle until you're actually thirty,” Lily told him with a smile that wasn't forced in the slightest. “I need to get my money's worth, Harry. I'm relying on you now.”

He laughed. “That's a lot of pressure.”

“We need to train you up,” James said, passing him a larger than necessary knife to start cutting the cake. “If you can handle our peer pressure, you'll be able to live life without any problems.”

“I'm being pressured into cake for breakfast right now,” he mused. “Will that really help me?”

James beamed. “Of course.”

“We're helping you with the bad decisions first,” Lily pointed out. “Like asking you to do drugs in front of us instead of keeping it a secret.”

“...Isn't the saying to tell you that I'm doing them, not do them _in front_ of you?” he asked, starting to cut a slice.

She shrugged. “I don't know.”

James mimicked her. “It could be anything.”

With a laugh, Harry remarked, “I can really tell that you two don't have kids.”

“You can say that after you open your presents,” James told him.

“Presents?” he asked, clumsily plopping one slice of cake onto a plate. “I thought eating all of this cake would be it.”

Lily demanded, “You're sharing the cake with us.”

Harry pulled the plate of cake closer to himself. “Make me.”

“I'll cry,” she said.

He frowned. “That's not really a threat.”

“She's an ugly crier,” James said, looking at Lily in approval and giving her a thumbs up. “You really don't want to see it, trust me.”

“I get very red,” Lily confirmed.

“...What,” was all he could respond to that with.

“It's good to know your weaknesses,” she said, stretching her arm out and wiggling her fingers. “Cake, please.”

“I'm only giving this to you because you're weird,” he declared, nudging the plate her way.

Lily clenched a hand in victory. “That's completely fine.”

“It's a compliment,” James said. “Do I have to threaten you or am I allowed a slice for being a cool dude?”

“Never call yourself a cool dude again, then sure,” Harry replied.

James put a hand over his heart. “I promise.”

He laughed.

It was the best birthday he'd had yet. Even if there hadn't been presents when Hermione came over after work, being around people that were happy for him to be there was a positive experience in itself. He was smiling freely, felt comfortable wherever he went in the home, and their interactions were entirely sincere.

And when Lily and James' friends came over for a brief period of time to offer him a happy birthday, bringing _more_ cake since they knew of his sweet tooth, that wasn't unwelcome either.

By the end of the day, he was full of too much food and smiling into his pillow.

It set a nice outline to the rest of his time there.

James gave him a new phone the following day, happily adding their numbers again.

When Harry expressed a want to start his education to get qualifications to his name—since he couldn't use the ones from his last body—he came home from Hermione's one day to a computer in his bedroom that could rival the one Hermione had splurged on.

She proclaimed hers was better because she had two monitors.

He didn't argue that.

Although he wouldn't have gotten into any universities because of him being officially awake for a few months, it was decided that he should do courses online for secondary school exams while waiting for his magic to manifest. It was too late for him to go to one of the private schools, and their curriculum would be similar to other schools through the country—the only difference would've been other kids that were like him.

He couldn't imagine being allowed in when he was so much older than the rest of them, so he rejected that idea immediately.

Hermione was more than happy to recommend which books were better for him to study from, hopping around the book-store and touching the covers to compare them in her head without having to skim through the pages.

There was no change in her expression when she used her powers; it looked like nothing more had happened than her feeling the cover, and yet, a few seconds later she could try and recite it word for word, the contents vivid in her memory for the upcoming hours.

With the more time that passed, it faded, being replaced with other topics.

Harry remarked, “It must've made it easier for you in school.”

“I had to do my tests online, unlike everyone else,” she replied, shaking her head. “It wasn't very fun being the odd kid out, I'll tell you that.”

“Oh,” he breathed. “Sorry.”

She shrugged. “It's over now.”

It was clear that she didn't have the best time at school.

Harry never pressed her for more information.

Sometimes, when she came over and he was studying to brush up on the subjects he hadn't touched for a while, Hermione was more than happy to sit there and tap away at her phone, comfortable enough to share the room and keep him company.

She was always there if he had any questions.

And Harry—

Harry listened to her rant, was genuinely interested in what she had to say, and prompted her to continue when she cut herself off mid-sentence when she got self-conscious.

“Come on, tell me,” he'd say, smiling brightly.

It turned out that Hermione tended to do what he wanted when he smiled.

Sadly, that didn't extend into buying anything ugly.

Lily and James were much the same; their moods took a visible turn for the better when he laughed at one of their jokes in the morning, and the rare times where he laughed so hard that it came out in wheezes, they'd be beaming for a good while after, ever-so-proud that they'd made him react like that.

He liked them.

And they liked him, too. That was the baffling part that he'd only just started to come to accept.

Lily and James shoved their affection to him in different ways; from money being topped up in his bank account, the cakes and drinks in the fridge that were meant for him, and it had started to develop into gently touching his arm while they were talking, or ruffling his hair when teasing him.

And he didn't mind it.

Harry beamed at the attention, welcoming it.

It was the happiest he'd been in a long time.

-x-

He got his results for secondary school exams by Christmas.

It wasn't a surprise that he'd done better than before.

Hermione had hugged him so tightly that he'd made a strangled noise, trying to get away from her.

And when Lily copied her and squeezed him even tighter, Harry looked at James with a pout, demanding that he spare him the same treatment.

He didn't.

The fact that Hermione could share such a playful look with Lily and look utterly comfortable was a feat in itself. Hermione had become a constant in the home, staying over and pushing Harry aside to share the bed when the weather was too horrible for her to drive back, and Lily and James were utterly fine with it.

They were happy with her coming over, regardless of whether Harry was there or not.

Lily and Hermione went out for coffee, betraying him.

“We can do the same,” James suggested.

They ended up in the same café, glaring across the room at each other.

Hermione went the route of taking a picture of her own piece of cake, sending it to Harry saying that she'd gotten the last slice.

His retaliation was in the form of buying her a neon-coloured scarf for her present. She was too grateful for anything she received to throw it away, so she'd started to have a collection of ugly things in her flat that Harry had thrust upon her.

He got far too much glee from her scowling.

“It's the best reaction I could get,” he said, putting a hand over his heart. “Like when someone tells you to fuck off because of a joke.”

Hermione muttered, “You're the joke.”

He laughed loudly.

Her present to him was a key to her flat.

When Harry joked that he'd bring his plant over for play dates, Hermione had tried to glare at him, ending up laughing until she had tears.

Harry wasn't in any better condition.

It was so strange to have someone by his side that he shared everything with. By that point, Hermione knew what he liked and disliked, could order his food when he'd gone to the toilet and get it right, and she was able to pick up his moods without having to ask any questions.

And Harry could do the same for her, too. It would've been something he could only dream of before; to have a best friend so close by that they'd crash at each other's homes, coming over and being familiar with where all the cups and other essentials were, and to be so close that Hermione could pick up on what stupid comment he was going to say before he got the chance.

His friendship with Tom was pitiful in comparison.

And wasn't that sad?

With every happy moment he acquired, he looked back on his old life with less and less emotions. He felt disconnected, had started to become comforted by the soft and thick hair that he saw in the mirror, and the thought of waking up in the middle of the night in his old body was enough to make his stomach twist uncomfortably.

He didn't want to go back.

There was nothing waiting for him, was there?

“It's Tom's birthday today,” Harry admitted in a whisper, fiddling with his sleeve.

Hermione leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Want to look him up again? He might've made an account somewhere now.”

“I doubt it,” he muttered. “And I—I don't know? I'll probably start crying if I actually see a picture of him.”

“Crying is perfectly healthy,” she replied.

“I'm an ugly crier, like Lily,” he said. “I can't ruin my perfect image with that, can I? I've gotta continue being a pretty boy.”

“Harry, the hairdresser calling you that _one time_ doesn't mean you can keep saying it,” she muttered.

“I absolutely can,” he answered back with a weak laugh. “I'm happy being pretty. I look better now.”

Hermione scolded him, “You weren't ugly.”

“Eyebrows do a lot for your confidence,” he pointed out.

“That's why we pluck ours, yes,” she agreed. “Can you please take down that old picture of you in your room? It looks like a weird shrine.”

“You're the one that said I should add candles to it!” he exclaimed.

“As a _joke_ ,” she retorted, punching him lightly. “I didn't think you'd take me seriously.”

“I'm very competitive.”

“What was the competition?” she asked. “Finding out whether you could out-stupid yourself?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, Hermione buried her face into his shoulder. “Forget I said that. That was really lame.”

His body shook with his laughter. “I didn't think you could get any worse.”

“ _Harry_!”

“It's okay, I like that about you,” he assured her, pulling her into a one-armed hug. “You're the only dweeb for me.”

“You're so mean,” she accused, though there was no heat to her voice. “Without me, you'll have no one to put up with you.”

“That's true,” he agreed.

Hermione was the one to ask, “Will you tell me about Tom?”

It was the first time she'd outright asked him that.

At first, he opened his mouth before closing it, considering the answer. There were snippets that came out every now and then, whether it was with her or Lily and James, yet he'd never sat down and fully explained what his friend had meant to him.

And so, with the two of them cuddled up on her sofa, Harry told her everything.

She had a box of tissues to shove into his hands.

It felt freeing.

Hermione didn't say a bad word about him; rather, she watched what she was saying in response, clearly trying not to hurt his feelings by insulting Tom for his lack of tact. For as often as Tom had charmed those he met with polite smiles, he looked at Harry's family like they were the dirt underneath his feet, making his dislike known.

It was Hermione's turn to look at him with an encouraging smile.

His eyes were red at the end of it.

He didn't think it would be brought up again.

And yet, a few weeks later, Hermione arrived at his house, slipping off her shoes and almost stumbling over as she exclaimed, “I've got an idea!”

“That sounds terrifying,” Harry remarked, taking her coat before she could accidentally hit the wall with her hand in her haste. “What's the plan? I'm very free right now.”

“Well,” she started, straightening out her jumper. “I looked on social media and I couldn't find anyone by the name of Tom Riddle.”

“We knew that already,” he answered.

“So.” Hermione clapped her hands. “I'm going to commission Meliora for you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“It's notoriously hard to get them to actually look at your request unless you state how much you're willing to pay upfront,” she rambled on, brushing her hair off of her face in an attempt to look more put-together. “Consider this your early birthday present.”

“Hermione, it's February,” he replied, furrowing his brow.

“Valentine's gift,” she amended with a wave of her hand. “I sent a number earlier, so if they say yes, you can either accept my good will or send me the money online.”

“This—isn't this a bit sudden?” Harry stuttered out, pulling one of his sleeves down over his hand. “I'm not—I don't want to see him.”

“You don't have to,” Hermione said, showing him a smile that reached her eyes. “But you wanted to know about him, right? That's why you always look online for him.”

He tried to say, “That's not—”

“There's no point hiding it when your most visited pages shows up on a new tab on your phone,” she pointed out. “Besides, I have more of a chance of Meliora responding since they'll recognise my name.”

“And if they don't?” he asked.

“I'll be terribly offended and want to die,” Hermione deadpanned.

He winced. “I'm sure you're very famous.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“Isn't it—it's a bit lame to only ask for someone's Instagram, isn't it?” he questioned, shifting his feet.

“Well, yes,” Hermione agreed, surprising him. “That's why I'm going to ask for his address.”

Harry stared.

She didn't break eye contact, smiling.

He gawked. “Hermione, _no_.”

“It's a perfectly good idea,” she defended, pointing a finger his way. “I know for certain that Meliora's been involved in some... shady dealing before, so this isn't anything new. Their description says they can do anything for a price for a reason.”

“I'm not stalking Tom!” he exclaimed.

“Technically, you won't be,” she said.

He breathed out audibly. “You're too proud of this.”

“I'm not suggesting you go and visit his home,” Hermione explained, closing the distance between them to gently put her hand on his arm. “But you'd like to know where he is, right? You never knew where he lived outside of the summer.”

His stomach twisted uncomfortably. “I don't—”

“Consider this a good-bye gesture, if you wish,” she suggested. “You'll get peace of mind from knowing that he's okay.”

Harry cleared this throat. “And what if he's not?”

“I'll tell you,” she said without hesitation. “I'll show you every message. Do you want to see how much I've offered?”

“It's—it's okay,” he replied, reaching up to run his fingers nervously through his hair. “I can't believe you're doing this.”

“I'm invested,” Hermione answered, her smile as soft and genuine as her voice. “I want to know that he's okay, too. Meliora's a means to an end that I don't mind using if it's for you.”

He let out a laugh. “You can admit you want to check out the competition.”

“That, too,” she agreed. “You're still the only reason I'm willing to do this.”

He hummed. “I feel so special.”

Hermione elbowed him lightly. “Special enough to let me choose what we're watching?”

“You picked last time, so no,” he denied.

She tutted. “It was worth a try.”

-x-

Meliora said no.

However, that wasn't the worst part.

After waiting a fortnight for a response, they blocked Hermione to stop her from contacting them any further.

Hermione couldn't decide whether she was embarrassed or offended from the reaction.

“They said yes to the money!” she complained, close to tears. “But—but as soon as I told them Tom's name, they blocked me. What the hell is that, Harry?”

“Does hell count as swearing?” he asked. “I think you just swore.”

She snapped her fingers. “Focus!”

“Well, maybe it's the stalking that's drawing the line?” he suggested.

“Or it's him!” Hermione replied, pointing towards her phone triumph. “That's the _only_ reason you wouldn't accept that kind of commission. If you're trying to keep your identity on the down-low.”

“Did you just say down-low?” he asked.

“Harry!” she demanded. “You're not taking this seriously.”

“Tom doesn't type like that,” he denied.

“That's what you're going on?” she questioned, running a hand through her hair and pulling it out of her braid in the process. “It's been four years. What if he's calmed down and actually types casually now?”

He countered that with, “Why haven't you?”

“I have no friends,” she bluntly replied. “How would I practice texting?”

“You take commissions online,” he pointed out. “You could be the loose and friendly person to go to, you know? But you're uptight and type like a middle-aged person.”

Hermione sighed. “Okay, maybe it was out of line to stalk him.”

“I told you not to ask for his address,” he reminded her.

“I didn't think it was a big deal!” she exclaimed, exasperated. “I've seen so much _worse_. I can't believe I got myself blocked.”

“Time to make a new account,” he teased.

“And leave behind my dignity?” Hermione questioned. “Absolutely not. I'm stubborn.”

“We'll see when you get unblocked, then.”

She wasn't.

Hermione's suggestion of it being Tom had been a throwaway comment, anything to try and comfort her hurt pride from being blocked, but—

Even if it wasn't him, it was possible that Tom had magic, wasn't it?

He'd attended a private school, Harry knew that much. Tom had never revealed the name of it, had never said where he lived throughout the year, and Harry didn't even know his parents' names.

When he relayed that information to Hermione, she said, “That's fishy.”

“It is, isn't it?” he agreed, surprised. “I just—I didn't think anything of it.”

“You were a kid,” she pointed out.

“I still feel it,” he said, looking down at his hands and flexing his fingers. “I can't believe I'm twenty-one.”

“Welcome to adulthood,” she replied, touching his shoulder. “Want to hear my next plan?”

He squinted. “Do I?”

She scoffed. “Of course you do, I'm the smart one here.”

“I don't trust you,” Harry said.

Hermione put both her hands on his shoulders. “I'm going to take time off from work.”

“The plan is to relax?” he questioned.

She smiled.

He waited for her to elaborate.

The answer didn't come for a few weeks.

It was spring by then; early April with the weather starting to warm up. Harry wasn't alarmed when he got a text from Hermione saying that she was coming over until it clicked that that was supposed to be a day that she usually worked at the book-store.

She barged her way in, getting a bag out from the bottom of his wardrobe and starting to pack his clothes as she said, “We're going on a trip.”

It wasn't until they were in the car that it was revealed where to.

The village had barely changed.

Lily and James had known about the plan beforehand, planning ahead and booking a local bed and breakfast for them.

Hermione parked the car outside, dropping their belongings off before they started to wander the streets. She was happy not to have a plan, for once, letting Harry walk around and inspect the area. His offhanded remarks were met with interest, and she made the appropriate noises to keep him talking.

He was close to crying the whole time.

“This used to be a charity shop,” he said, gesturing to what was now a tiny café. “The woman that ran it had a stroke and I laughed.”

“You _laughed_?”

“She stole my ball once,” he admitted with a wince. “I was young, okay. I didn't really understand.”

“You were a teenager,” she retorted.

He shrugged. “I didn't have much empathy.”

“You're a horrible person,” Hermione replied.

“I can't deny that,” he agreed. “But am I allowed cake before we go anywhere else? I'm hungry.”

And when he smiled, Hermione could never say no to that.

He was glad that she wasn't immune to that yet.

There were a few familiar faces. It might've been years since he'd visited, yet a lot of the occupants of the village remained the same. The couple that ran the only pub had divorced and sold the business, another salon had opened up on the corner, and there was now a rival supermarket that was across the street from the other one.

When they wandered over to the trail that led into the woods, Hermione looked down at her shoes. “I'm not dressed for this.”

“You have trainers on,” he pointed out.

She huffed. “Yes. I don't want them to get dirty.”

“We could always go buy you a second-hand pair of shoes?” Harry suggested. “There's bound to be _something_ in your size back there.”

Hermione sighed. “No, I'll suffer and buy actual new ones if I need to.”

“So, you want new shoes,” he remarked.

She tutted. “That's what you got out of that?”

“You'll see one smudge of dirt and say it's no good any more,” he mused. “And drag me out to go shopping with you. I can already imagine it happening.”

“Because that's what you did when you got grass stains on _your_ shoes,” she retorted.

He shrugged. “I'm getting used to being rich.”

“You're not rich, your parents are,” Hermione snapped back.

It was the first time either of them had referred to Lily and James like that.

Harry struggled with what to say, eventually not saying anything at all, instead shoving his hands into the pocket of his jacket, shifting on the spot.

“We're not walking around aimlessly, are we?” she questioned, squinting as she peered into the bushes that hadn't been trimmed for a while. The path was still outlined from where grass refused to grow. “Because I can't have the stamina for that, Harry. I really don't.”

He beamed. “You've been working out for this very reason.”

“ _No_!”

“You can wait out here, if you want,” he offered, pushing his hair away from his face. “I'm curious whether it's changed as much as the high-street.”

“It's woods,” she said.

“It's a burial ground,” he quipped. “I used to see the weirdest things buried back here—fridges, chairs, even a mattress one time. There was always some story about a homeless man living out here, but it was never true.”

She stared. “You want to go in there to see _rubbish_?”

He laughed. “It's curiosity, Hermione!”

“You've gone mad,” she replied, shaking her head. “I'm not letting you get murdered alone.”

“I'm not going to get murdered,” he denied. “Maybe my shoes will.”

“You're going first,” she said, gesturing towards the bushes. “And if I so much as trip over a twig, you'll be the one washing my clothes.”

Through his laughter, he agreed, “Yes, yes.”

A good chunk of the woods had been turned into houses. The new road that had been made included the tree he'd used to swing from, the very one that Tom had refused to climb because he hated heights.

Harry didn't look any further after that.

Hermione's shoes were ruined.

She'd packed another pair, thankfully.

Hermione didn't suggest that they visit where he used to live; rather, the following day after they'd had breakfast, they walked near the outskirts of the village where Tom's home was located. It was on the street that had the expensive homes, a clear standard that was different to the rest.

Although he'd been prepared for it not to be occupied—as they never rented it out while they were gone—he didn't know how to react when there was a car in the driveway.

Worse yet, there was a name for the home beside the fence rather than the number that had always been there. Harry stared at it for longer than necessary, finding it hard to believe.

Tom thought naming homes was pretentious.

As rich as his parents were, Tom had said that they thought the same.

And yet, that wasn't all that had changed; the driveway had been redone, the flowerbed shapes completely changed, and the door had been replaced with a red one that stood out against the rest of the home.

Hermione nudged him gently. “Do you want to knock?”

“Knock?” he questioned, his voice cracking with that one word.

“Well, someone's home,” she said.

Harry took a step back. “I—I can't.”

Hermione was the one to go up and knock.

Although he was tempted to run and get out of sight to run away from his problems, he felt like he was going to throw up when a completely unfamiliar face answered the door.

Then, Hermione gave him the bad news that the home had been sold three years ago.

“Oh,” was all he could say.

“It was worth a try,” she replied, trying to cheer him up. “And now we know.”

“Yeah,” Harry whispered, his shoulders sagging. “You're right.”

-x-

When he got his driver's licence, Lily gave him a large bouquet of flowers.

Harry happily put them on his bedside table, making sure it was on the side where he wouldn't knock into it in the morning. His bedroom was slowly gaining some personal touches and reflecting more of his personality.

He was doing good.

With qualifications to his name, a bank account that wouldn't run dry any time soon regardless of whether he got a job or not, and a best friend that didn't mind answering his calls at three in the morning, there wasn't much else that he could want. The life he had was one that he'd only been able to fantasise about before; to have such people around him that wanted to keep him close and to live freely seemed like a faraway dream.

Sometimes, he wondered whether he was wasting it.

When he voiced that thought to Lily, she ruffled his hair and said, “Don't be silly, Harry. You gotta make up for missed time by doing whatever the hell you want.”

“That doesn't sound very responsible,” he remarked.

Lily flashed him a peace sign. “I'm trying to be the cool aunt.”

“You're literally my mother,” Harry replied through his laughter.

“Eh, details,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I'm whatever you want me to be. And for now, I'm going to be the fairy godmother walking around the house, reviving all the plants.”

“Fairy godmothers do that?” he questioned, getting up to follow her around. Although there were no sparkles or special effects when she used her powers, he liked to see the flowers perk up and recover. “I had no idea.”

Lily winked. “I can do anything you want.”

He frowned. “Should you be saying that to me?”

“Unless you're going to ask for drugs, yes,” she quipped. “I'm not going to freshen up your weed for you.”

Harry choked out a laugh. “Has someone asked that before?”

With a smile that showed her teeth, she confirmed, “Of course!”

“It's really weird to think about,” he mused. “How your powers work in everyday life, I mean.”

“I imagine nothing is as bad as Hermione's,” Lily replied, picking out her target of the vase on top of the fireplace. “Poor girl can't even read a book any more. I can't say I'm jealous of that.”

He winced. “Yeah.”

Lily frowned. “That's weird.”

“What?” he asked.

“It's not working,” she explained, touching a petal. “And it's definitely not plastic. James has switched them out to try and fuck with me before.”

He lamely suggested, “Maybe you're tired?”

She shook her head.

And after a few minutes passed of her touching different parts of the plant and getting visibly frustrated, Harry had to ask, “Has it happened before?”

“When my magic was still developing, yes,” Lily answered, taking a step back and putting her hands on her hips. “But this—I can't turn it off, Harry. Any plant I touch should be rejuvenated in seconds.”

His reply sounded tone-deaf to his own ears. “That sucks.”

Lily stared at him.

He stared back, feeling entirely out of place.

“Harry,” she said, a smile curling on her lips. “Come here, will you?”

“Uh, no,” he blurted. “I feel very threatened right now.”

“What, why?” Lily exclaimed. “I'm very friendly!”

He took a step back. “I don't think you're a fairy godmother any more.”

With a huff, Lily gestured for him to come over. “Come here, dumbass.”

“Less threatening,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “Now what?”

“Now,” Lily started, putting her hands on his shoulders with a smile that reached her eyes. “I think it's that time in your life where you start to experiment.”

He leaned back. “I'm sorry, what?”

“Magic!” she exclaimed with a loud laugh. “The only reason for my powers not to work is for someone to be blocking me—and it's only us here.”

“But I—” Harry cleared his throat. “I don't feel anything?”

“That's how it's supposed to feel,” she assured him. “Trust me.”

Doubtful, he asked, “Are you sure about this?”

With a wide smile, Lily nodded. “We'll test with James.”


	4. 04

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **previously:** harry confirmed his previous body is dead, meliora refused to look into tom riddle, harry and hermione visited his old village, and harry's powers started to appear.
> 
> a bit of a misunderstanding in my last chapter!!! when i said a lot of time will pass before tom came in, i meant with time skips sgkljdhdj this chapter is... 50% tom?? he's here!!! he's back!!!! he's not immediately jumping on harry and kissing him, so sorry to those that were expecting that?? i want to build up their relationship properly and get those soft soft feelings to develop.

_Harry Potter © J. K. Rowling_

“Can I leave yet?” Harry called out. “I'm bored.”

“You can't!” Hermione shouted back, able to be heard clearly from the first floor. “You have to stay there until your power reverts!”

He flopped back against his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Eventually, he fell asleep.

Hermione woke him up by shaking him later. Enough time had passed for the sun to have gone down, causing him to be a bit confused from the lack of light in the room at first.

“Two hours,” she said.

“Eh?” was his eloquent reply.

“You have to be away from me for two hours,” she clarified, sitting down beside him and turning her phone so he could see the timer on the screen. “Aren't you happy that you know now?”

Harry sighed. “This means I can't be around you when you're working.”

Hermione nudged his arm gently. “It means you can't _look_ at me.”

“You can't blindfold me,” he replied, shaking his head. “That's just—that's not optimal at all.”

“It was a joke,” she defended.

He huffed. “I'm the funny one.”

Lily and James had both been excited with the appearance of his magic. Harry had been doubtful that it was really there, confused and reluctant to believe it at all until James had come home and found that he couldn't use his either. It resulted in Lily excitedly fetching her phone to call Hermione up, inviting her over for dinner with a surprise.

James hadn't said anything, simply sliding a gossip magazine over to Hermione and asking her whether there were any good deals advertised in it.

Hermione had almost cried when she was able to hold and read a book for the first time in _years_ without having to overthink it. Her happiness didn't disappear as they conducted all different tests for a few weeks to get to the bottom of what was happening.

In the end, it was simple. Harry was able to block anyone's magic from looking at them.

For him, it didn't feel like he'd done anything at all in the first place.

Lily tested it out with some of her friends.

Alice had stared at them for increasingly more time per glass of wine she had, trying to get a feel for their thoughts.

And when she didn't get anything, she pulled Harry into a hug, drunkenly stating that he'd stolen the voices in her head.

He had to laugh at that.

And Hermione—

Hermione dragged him to a different book-store—a nearby competitor to where she worked—and picked out a new series to read that she hadn't touched before. It took a while of her searching and realising that she knew the plot of the sequel before she was satisfied, demanding that he stay over at hers so she could get the full experience of finishing the book all at once.

It was about the principle of it all, according to her. She wanted to hold the book in her hands and devote time to it instead of reading it online, a way to relive that surge of happiness that she got from her childhood.

He wasn't going to deny her that.

“As long as you don't light candles to set the mood,” he said.

Hermione laughed. “I'm not going to make out with the book, Harry.”

“You want to touch it with your fingertips,” he pointed out.

She exclaimed, “In an entirely platonic way!”

Harry spent the evening on her computer, downloading a game with her permission and talking every now and then from where she was curled up near him.

For having an ancestor that could only see in the dark, he supposed that it wasn't a let down that he nullified those that he was around.

Sure, it wasn't something he could control, though almost everyone's he met thus far were a constant part of them, not to be controlled be a switch and turned off to live a comfortable life.

James had explained he saw strange pattern-like particles floating that led him to a lost item after he'd set his mind to it, which seemed to be the only one that could be somewhat controlled.

Then again, it would've been tiring to constantly see things that others couldn't, only to be led to a crumb that had fallen off of his food.

“This is underwhelming,” Harry mused, holding his hand up and stretching his fingers. “I wasn't hoping for something flashy, I swear. I just thought it would be—useful? Maybe?”

“Sad you can't make a living from it?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah, I guess,” he agreed, letting his hand fall down to his side. “This kinda sucks.”

“You could always do therapy sessions,” she proposed. “A safe-space to nullify anyone's power. It would be relaxing for them.”

“Not for me,” Harry pointed out. “I hate people.”

“You don't hate people,” she denied, shaking her head. “You hate socialising with strangers.”

“Well, same thing, isn't it?” he quipped. “I overthink paying for things at the store. How am I going to make a living out of meeting up with strangers? I think I'd rather die, thanks.”

She snorted. “You're very dramatic.”

Harry winked at her. “You like it.”

“I like you less and less everyday,” she retorted.

He laughed. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, nodding her head seriously. “I'll be overjoyed when you eventually leave for university.”

“No, you won't,” he denied.

“I will,” she insisted. “I won't have to see your face everyday.”

“You're the one calling me to meet up!” he exclaimed.

Hermione sniffed. “You have no proof.”

He pointed at his phone.

She laughed at that.

With the revelation that his magic had manifested as something harmless that he wouldn't have to be careful with, Harry was faced with the uncertainty about what he wanted to do with his life. There wasn't anything that he was passionate about; no subject that he'd excelled at school at, nor was there a job that he had his heart set on.

His magic wouldn't allow him to breeze through and make a living off of it, sadly.

Lily and James reminded him that he didn't have to rush anything; that they had the money to allow him to live freely and do what he wanted with his life, even if it meant that he was still living with them when he was thirty and single.

He pulled a face at that. “You think I'd still be single?”

“There's no way your boyfriend's going to live with us,” James countered. “And we're not building a shed in the garden for him to live in.”

He stared.

Lily laughed. “It's the only reason you'd still be here, don't you think?”

“Maybe it's a long-distance relationship,” he argued.

“You get fidgety when you don't see Hermione for days,” James said. “You wouldn't last.”

“The confidence you two have in me is astounding.”

Lily winked. “We know you.”

He squinted. “Do you?”

She leaned in to whisper, “I bought a tart for dessert today.”

He gave her a thumbs up.

It seemed that outside of spending time with Hermione, he liked sweet things the best.

Hermione suggested that he could get a job at a café to make coffee.

Lily said that he could study baking to make his own food.

That was an eye opener for him.

For as much cake and other sweet treats he'd eaten since coming into his body, he'd never _baked_ anything. Neither Lily or James were good at that, so the cooking in the kitchen was purely the savoury kind, other than pancakes.

He was wide-eyed at the thought. “I can do that?”

With that in mind, his plan was to apply for a culinary course in a nearby college. His grades were high enough to reach a lot of the requirements, though it was a matter of whether he'd be accepted into any of them.

Harry spent the next few weeks with Lily, James, and Hermione each recommending him different schools, presenting their research and pros and cons for every single one. There was a surprising lack of research on his end when he was bombarded with information as soon as he'd made one decision.

It showed they cared, didn't it?

No one had cared before.

Harry had continued on from secondary school to the same sixth form, never considering the option to look elsewhere or invest his time in a specialised course. He'd studied whatever he'd been graded highest in, never thinking about where it would take him.

He had a goal in mind now, somewhat.

It felt nice to have people supporting him without question.

As he started to spend more time in the kitchen, either with someone by his side helping him or trying out a recipe while Lily and James were at work, there was always at least one person to try the result at the end. And instead of telling him that it was always perfect, they were honest.

He wasn't upset about the failures.

“I never really cooked before,” Harry said when Hermione had questioned if she was too harsh by saying his cake was dry. “But this is fun! I'm competitive. I need to master this now.”

She laughed. “Maybe get some smaller tins and cut the recipe down? It won't change that much by making a little version of it.”

He snapped his fingers. “You're so smart.”

The next cake he presented her with had her trying not to laugh. “I didn't mean get _heart_ tins—”

He flashed her a peace sign. “I also found a teddy bear one.”

Hermione snorted. “Really?”

“I'm very excited to see how fucked his face will turn out,” he mused.

She struggled not to smile. “I worry about you.”

Harry beamed.

-x-

At twenty-two, Harry was one of the oldest in his class.

The college was half an hour by train away from home. Within the first week, he'd managed to narrow down what time he had to leave to arrive there on time, only having to wait five minutes after he'd made it to the college until his classes started.

It was strange being around so many people suddenly.

They were happy, excitable, and most had just graduated secondary school, so they weren't old enough to drink yet. As soon as they'd latched on to Harry being older, it was inevitable that there would be questions of whether he'd buy alcohol for them or drive them around.

As it turned out, he was good at saying no.

Hermione was horrified when he told her.

“It's fine,” he said with a laugh. “It's not like they were asking me to bring it to class, right? I mean, it was an invitation to a party.”

“That you said no to,” she pointed out.

He shrugged. “I'm not the party type.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Have you ever been to one?”

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. Then, at her doubtful look, he clarified with a smile, “My last two birthday parties.”

She tutted. “That doesn't count.”

“It does!” he insisted. “Even if there wasn't any party poppers this year. It was still a good time.”

“That's sad,” she said. “You're sad. Every word that comes out of your mouth makes me even sadder for you.”

“Like you've been to more parties!” he retorted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “And before you even say it, parties from when you were a kid don't count!”

Hermione squinted. “Why are there requirements now?”

He sniffed. “I refuse to be the sadder one in this scenario.”

“Harry, you were asleep for three years,” she said, patting his shoulder in sympathy. “It's only natural that you're second best to me.”

He glared. “Trying to rub salt into my wounds, are you?”

“No,” she replied. “Though, if I was trying to do that, I'd tell you that I've been to a nightclub before, unlike you.”

“ _You_?” he demanded.

She smiled. “Once. A poor decision, I assure you.”

He laughed. “What a party girl you are.”

Hermione proudly proclaimed, “More of a party girl than you.”

“Okay,” he gave in, holding his hands up in a sign of surrender. “You can keep the crown for that title—not that it makes much sense. Did your class-mates drag you or something?”

“Exactly that,” she confirmed with a straight face. “One of them threw up on my shoes.”

He winced. “Fun.”

“Don't go drinking with first-timers,” she advised.

The classes were fun.

Harry took his studies seriously; getting up on time and never missing the train, washing his apron after each practical session, and he awkwardly tried his best to get along with his class-mates. There were a few times where he felt out of place and questioned why he was there at all—usually when he was waiting for his food to cook and he was cleaning up—and that was broken when one pulled him into a conversation, genuinely interested in befriending him.

They were nice.

Harry got more contacts in his phone.

And with the addition of more group chats other than the one he was in with Lily and James, he started to put his phone on silent when he didn't want to be constantly disturbed by the notification noise.

Yet, as nice as they were, they couldn't relate to him sometimes. There were references that he didn't understand, memes that he hadn't been around for, and despite him thinking that his mental maturity was around there age, a few of the childish arguments that popped up had him exasperated from overhearing them.

Hermione understood him.

She wasn't good at comforting him, though.

“There, there,” she said, patting his shoulder.

Harry leaned into it, resting his weight on her shoulder with a sigh. “Kill me.”

“I'm not going to jail for you,” she denied.

“I thought we were friends,” he mumbled. “We're the definition of bros before hoes.”

“Harry, _no—_ ”

“You put me before anyone,” he said, pulling her into a hug and making it so they were cheek-to-cheek. “That's why you have no one else.”

She put a hand to his face to push him away. “Absolutely not.”

With a pout, he rubbed where she'd touched, pretending it hurt. “Deny it all you want, I know the truth already.”

“The truth is that we're both sad,” Hermione replied, pointing at him. “But you're the worst.”

“Me?” he exclaimed. “That's just rude. You've seen my phone blowing up lately.”

“Yes, with inside jokes that you're barely involved in,” she told him matter-of-factly. “You can't boast that you have friends when you'd rather hang out with middle-aged people instead of them.”

He shrugged. “It's more fun.”

She sighed. “That's why people think we're dull.”

“Oh, you're included in it now?” he questioned with a grin. “Of course, I'm the duller one.”

“I'm glad you understand now.”

He leaned in and asked, “For real, who's calling us dull?”

“It doesn't need to be said, Harry,” she replied.

“You're awfully caught up in what people think,” he mused. “Who cares? Like Lily says, it's not going to change our lives if people think we're dousing plants with steroids. It's all talk. They can't prove anything.”

Hermione made an offended noise. “Our plants are perfectly healthy.”

“That they are,” he agreed. “They've grown up from pure love and affection only. No drugs involved whatsoever.”

It might've been from that conversation that Harry got curious. Although he'd rejected his class-mates invitations to hang out after class, he'd spent lunch with them and free periods, so it wasn't as though he was avoiding them completely.

When the few others that were his age proposed going out clubbing, he agreed after being told that some he'd spoke to in passing from the departments surrounding them were coming.

Hermione was horrified with his decision.

Lily gave him a handful of cash on his way out.

“It's not a strip club,” Harry mused, looking down at the notes in his hand. “I don't need this.”

“I'm too lazy to get my phone and transfer you money,” she replied. “Besides, you can pay for your train ticket with this. It works.”

He pointed out, “You've already given me enough money.”

Lily clenched a fist. “More!”

“No more!” he protested.

“You deserve it,” she insisted, ruffling his hair.

Harry complained, “I just styled that.”

“And I'll do it again for you,” she cooed, dragging him over to the nearest drawer to fetch a brush. “You look very pretty, Harry.”

He laughed. “I really don't need to know that, but thanks.”

“I'm boosting your self-confidence,” Lily informed him, brushing his bangs aside for a moment. “And it's good you did your eyebrows last week.”

“You saying they look bad normally?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she said with a laugh. “I like how nice you look. It makes me happy to see you healthy and moving.”

“Well,” he started, clearing his throat. “You're welcome?”

Lily snickered. “I am very welcome, yes.”

“Don't bully me,” he complained.

“Want a lift to the station?” she proposed. “We can grab coffee before your train arrives.”

“Sure,” he readily agreed. “But I'm paying for it.”

She winked. “With the money I gave you.”

He huffed.

It was strange to be out in the evening without the usual people by his side. Hermione was at home, very vocal in her texts that he was missing out on a good time she had planned by her laptop, while Lily and James had opted to have a date night. They made sure to inform him that he could text at any moment for them to come get him, reminding him every day since he'd told them his plans that he didn't have to go along with anything he didn't want to.

Sometimes, it was hard to remember that he was technically twenty-two when he was suddenly being coddled more than ever.

He wasn't ashamed to admit that he liked it.

The positive attention all year round was wonderful; he smiled from the praise, took the criticism without argument when it came from those close to him, and the lack of extreme rules and punishments in the home made everyday a pleasant experience.

He was happy.

If he thought classes were overwhelming, it didn't compare to being in a loud nightclub.

He'd used Lily's cash to pay to get in.

Thankfully, the people he was out with didn't leave. He got dragged to the bar, awkwardly tried to dance with them before stepping outside for fresh air, and he laughed a lot more than he thought he would.

He was the most sober one towards the end of the night.

As he hadn't wanted to be too intoxicated with people he barely knew, Harry ended up being the one making sure everyone got to the train station okay.

At least he could say that his experience was better than Hermione's.

He took a picture of his clean shoes when he sat down on the train, taking a seat by the window where someone could be opposite him with a small table between.

It wasn't a surprise that Hermione was awake. She texted him back immediately, demanding to know how and _where_ he was, and he was too preoccupied to look up when he seat opposite him was taken.

His smile disappeared when he finally looked away from his phone.

It was entirely possible that he was projecting again; that he was seeing a face that was somewhat similar and willing it to be exactly what he wanted instead of seeing it for what it was.

He'd been doing well, though.

Harry had found closure since he'd confirmed his death and started going to therapy. He'd stopped expecting Lily and James to punish him for nonsensical reasons, had adapted to a healthy lifestyle instead of being held back by all his baggage, and he'd started to do what he wanted—

And yet, there was that familiar face slumped in the seat in front of him. The man had his eyes closed, arms crossed with his shoulder against the window, waiting for the train to finally start moving.

Harry stared.

It was a stupid idea, yet he couldn't talk himself out of taking a picture with his camera to confirm what he was seeing.

The hair didn't come out blond in the picture; rather, other than the height and clothing, nothing was the same. The facial features were completely different, the hair black in colour, and Harry's stomach twisted uncomfortably as he was faced with the reality that, maybe, he'd had too much to drink.

But it didn't make him dizzy to turn his head side-to-side like it did one night when he'd had too much wine. He'd barely had _anything—_

Without the phone, he was still seeing blond.

There was even the mole on the hand, the very one he'd been missing for _years_.

When he held up the device, simply looking at the camera app instead of snapping a picture, what he saw was completely different through the device.

Harry felt like he was going mad.

That wasn't—

His eyes felt dry.

There was no one there for him to turn to; strangers scattered in different seats, all minding their own business in the late hours of the evening, and no one he could look to for reassurance.

With shaky hands, he sent the picture to Hermione, asking what hair colour she saw.

She said black.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

Focusing on the picture did nothing to calm him down.

He knew those features, too, even if time had changed them somewhat.

His voice cracked as he asked, “Tom?”

And as the man opposite him opened his eyes—clearly not asleep in such a short amount of time—the appearance that Harry was seeing before was gone.

It matched the picture now. There was no blond hair in sight.

Tom frowned.

Harry's mouth opened, but no sound escaped.

He didn't look down when his phone buzzed. It was almost drowned out by the sudden fast beating of his heart, feeling nauseated as he was trying to come to terms with what he was seeing.

It wasn't—

He choked out, “You're Tom, aren't you?”

Tom tilted his head. “Excuse me?”

“Tom Riddle,” he clarified, a nervous quiver to his voice. There was no confidence to it, and it had come out so softly that he wondered whether he'd been heard at all when there was no reply. “You're Tom Riddle.”

There was a furrow between Tom's brow as he stared at him.

He'd changed.

Harry couldn't help but notice that Tom had two piercings at the top of one ear.

He'd never thought Tom would be the piercing type of person.

His vision was becoming blurry with unshed tears.

Harry hastily wiped at his eyes with the palm of his hand, unable to hold back the wet-sounding laugh that escaped him, and as sudden as it started, he was laughing _more—_

Tom stood up and made to leave.

“ _Stay_ ,” he pleaded.

And, somehow, his request was listened to. Tom stiffly sat back down in his seat, his expression anything but positive, but Harry was too preoccupied that Tom had actually _listened_ and stayed around, the strange feeling of happiness mixing with the rest of his erratic emotions.

Harry was crying.

Seeing the mole under Tom's right eye had him crying more.

This wasn't—

The only means to finding him had been rejected regardless of the money offered. Hermione's absurd theory that she'd joked about had to have some substance—

At least, he hoped it did.

It was a gamble he was willing to take.

“Meliora refused my commission about you,” he said, hiccuping from his tears halfway through his sentence. “Well, not me. My friend. She asked for me since she—she knows them, kinda.”

Tom met his gaze. “Meliora?”

“You know,” Harry said, gesturing vaguely. “Tell me you know.”

Tom stared.

He swallowed. “Do you... not?”

The response wasn't what he was expecting. “What colour is my hair?”

“Black?” It came out sounding like a question. “It's black.”

Tom leaned back in his seat, expression giving nothing away.

Harry felt incredibly on the spot.

The man in front of him was supposed to be a part of his past; someone he'd left behind and had to cut ties with because of his circumstances. Lily and James had expressed their condolences, knowing that trying to explain the soul-hopping to someone without magic would only sound mad.

Meliora was all he had to go on.

“Please.” His voice cracked. “Do you—do you know them?”

Tom slowly replied, “I do.”

The train finally departed.

“I'm—” Harry stared to say, only to cut himself off with a hiccup, hastily wiping at his eyes. The tears were coming out worse. “I'm Harry.”

Tom didn't say anything.

It wasn't the type of conversation to have in public, he knew that, but the train wasn't _that_ crowded. He'd already gotten a few looks for sobbing and sniffing grossly since he had no tissues.

He barely managed to get the words out. “I never thought I'd see you again.”

Tom bluntly replied, “I don't know you.”

“You do,” Harry insisted, blinking to try and get rid of the tears in his vision. Though he was sure from Tom's tone of voice, his expression wasn't a good one. “I'm—we were friends. I used to be Harry Potheur.”

Tom abruptly stood up, quickly striding away near the doors to get out despite the fact that they were only halfway to the next station. And rather than calling out for him to stop, Harry scrambled to get up and follow him, having to grab onto a few headrests to keep his balance.

There was nothing welcoming about Tom's body language. He had his back to him, staring at the darkness outside instead of facing him.

“Tom,” he said, holding onto the railing near the door for support. “Listen to me.”

There was no response.

No one else was standing with them.

“I was in a car accident,” Harry started, the pounding of his heart spurring him on. It was his only chance to try and prove that he wasn't lying. “We didn't get to spend my birthday together because of it.”

He could see it as Tom clenched a hand into a fist.

Harry wondered whether he'd stuck to not being violent when he was mad.

“Please,” he pleaded in a hushed whisper. “I can tell you so much more. You used to spend the summer with me—”

When Tom turned his head to look at him, the pinched expression wasn't one of happiness. Instead, it was a scowl as he demanded to know, “Do you really expect me to believe this?”

Harry's voice cracked. “What?”

“Harry's dead.”

“Well, yeah,” he lamely agreed, looking at him with wide eyes. “I was getting to that.”

Tom stared.

“My—” Harry started before leaning forward, making it so they wouldn't be overheard if he spoke quietly. “My magic fucked up and I was in the wrong body. I got shoved back in here.”

There was no response.

“Tom,” he whispered, adjusting his grip on the railing. “You're scared of heights.”

Tom's expression didn't change.

“You always bought those ice lollies that we could split into two because I liked to see which one of us would get a bigger one,” he continued, the words coming out rushed in an attempt to get it all out. “And you—you never made fun of my looks. You defended me when anyone said anything about me when you were around.”

That managed to get through to him, but not in the way he'd wanted.

Tom averted his eyes, looking anywhere but at him with his facial features pinched.

“I tried to contact you,” Harry blurted, needing to clear the air. “When I woke up. It was one of the first things I did.”

Tom told him quietly, “I changed my number.”

“And sold your house,” he added on. “I—I went back to check after Meliora said no.”

There was a beat of silence.

Tom wasn't saying _anything_.

He had to ask, “Do you believe me? I can tell you more—”

That was cut off with a simple, “I do.”

“And?” Harry persisted, talking louder than intended.

It frustrated him to tears again when Tom didn't reply, instead staring out the door as the train started to slow down for approaching the station. There was nothing but awkwardness between them, so much unsaid that he didn't know what to do with. For all he'd imagined seeing Tom again—if he'd ever be permitted that moment—the chances of him being aware of magic had always been slim.

But with him believing, it was supposed to be okay.

It wasn't.

The last thing he expected Tom to say was, “I can't do this.”

Then, Tom got off at the station without looking his way, walking off as fast as he could.

Harry watched until he disappeared into the distance.

-x-

The plan was simple.

Harry got an endless string of invitations to the forum, hopping from Lily and James to their friends, creating new accounts and contacting Meliora for Tom's phone number, repeating the process every time he got blocked.

He was persistent.

It was his thirteenth account when he got a reply back, telling him to stop.

Harry said no.

Then he got blocked.

He continued on.

There was a waiting time for each invitation that was given out; the duration was lower depending on how long the account had been registered for, making it so parents could give them out to their kids easily. Harry was making use of that by using middle-aged people to supply him with codes.

It wasn't cheating the system when they melted to his smile.

He was well aware of how to get his way.

“You're shameless,” Hermione accused.

“I'm pretty, actually,” he corrected with an air of arrogance.

She replied, “Petty is more like it.”

“I can't deny that,” Harry agreed. “My next tactic will be creating a new post and typing up Tom's embarrassing moments. I'm sure that'll get him to notice me, right?”

“You'll probably just get timed out for posting something so off-topic,” she mused. “Not that that matters with all your accounts.”

He beamed. “You're supporting me!”

“I've learned it's better to go along with your nonsense,” she pointed out. Then, she put her hand on his arm and gently asked, “Harry, are you—are you okay?”

“I'm over crying about it,” he replied, honest. “Besides, this is _so_ Tom.”

She eyed him warily. “What?”

“I had to annoy him to be my friend in the first place,” he admitted, running his fingers through his hair. It was started to get too long and brush against his eyelashes. “This gives me something to do instead of just... wallowing.”

“You kind of are wallowing,” she said.

“Eh.” Harry shrugged. “I'm wallowing productively. Can't you see how much effort I'm putting into this?”

“You've got a random generator bookmarked to help you with usernames,” she pointed out.

“How does that make this _not_ productive?” he demanded. “You can't take the credit away from me because of that.”

Quietly, she said, “I'm worried about you.”

“Don't be,” Harry replied, leaning closer to rest against her shoulder. “I'm stubborn, remember? He was the asshole for walking away, knowing that I can't contact him. It's only fair that I annoy the hell out of his friend for that.”

“You're harassing them,” she muttered.

He waved his hand dismissively. “Details.”

With the knowledge that Tom knew of Meliora, he was running on the assumption that he had some sort of magic. It would explain the question about the hair—and the fact, maybe, Harry wasn't hallucinating his old body—yet instead of focusing on the details of what his powers could be, he went to other sources.

Namely, Lily and James.

They were more than happy to ask the children of their friends, all of which had gone to different private schools around the country, whether there had been a student named Tom Riddle there. Harry could give an accurate description of his appearance, age, and birthday, yet all of the answers came back negative.

“Maybe he went abroad,” he muttered. “His parents are loaded. It's possible.”

“Or,” Hermione started, approaching the subject cautiously. “Maybe Meliora is his friend and he knows through him.”

“He looked different,” he countered.

“Harry—”

“As soon as he looked at me, it disappeared,” he continued on, gaining confidence with every word. “And you know what that means. Powers don't work for two hours after looking at me.”

“Harry,” she said again.

“I'm not mad,” he insisted, fiddling with his sleeve. “I—really did see it this time, okay? You know that's why I sent you the picture. There's _no_ way I'm making it up.”

She told him, “I never thought you were making it up.”

He smiled. “Thanks.”

It took over a month for his plan to work.

Validation came in the form of Meliora replying with an address without any context. Harry had been typing the same message every time, not quite expecting a response since he'd been asked to stop before, so when he'd logged in to see that he had a notification, he'd been momentarily stunned.

James was wary about it. “I don't want you going alone.”

“Google showed it as a perfectly normal building,” he countered. “And there's actually flats for sale, so it's not a front.”

It didn't appease him. “Don't you think it's... strange that you've been sent an address?”

Hermione had said the same thing.

“No,” Harry replied without missing a beat. “Tom never liked using the phone. And he hates texting.”

James was doubtful. “You think it's Tom's address?”

“Well, I hope so,” he mused. “If it's Meliora ready to kick me for harassing them, I'd understand. I do kind of deserve it.”

“Harry—”

“You can drive me, if you want,” he offered with a smile. “But you're not coming up with me. I'm an adult.”

James latched onto that immediately. “I'm coming.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed.

“We're going tomorrow.”

“What? No!” he rejected, shaking his head. “I have class. And you have work! We're not skipping—”

James pointed out, “I can call in sick.”

“ _No_!” he exclaimed. “I'm not skipping class. I haven't missed a day yet.”

“I'll pick you up, then,” James proposed.

He couldn't deny that that was a good idea when the address was relatively close to his college.

Time passed slowly the next day. Harry was nervous, checking his appearance whenever he passed a mirror to make sure that his hair was styled nicely, and he might've paid more attention to his clothes that morning. The last time Tom saw him, he'd been red-faced and crying, so anything was a step-up from how he'd looked then.

James was in the car park ten minutes before his last class ended.

“And what if no one's there?” James asked.

Harry shrugged. “I'll wait?”

“No, you'll come wait in the car with me,” was the correction to that. “I'm not having you sitting in a hallway. What if you catch a cold?”

He gestured to his gloves.

James frowned.

“Okay, I'll come back down,” he gave in. “But only because you have heated seats.”

James smiled. “It makes your ass feel like it's only gently on fire, right?”

Harry winced. “That doesn't sound nice at all.”

James laughed.

The apartment building was the same as it appeared online. The car park wasn't rundown, the hedges out front were neatly trimmed, and the condition of the entrance was much the same.

When he put a hand on the door, James said, “Harry, wait.”

He tilted his head. “What?”

“This is for you,” James stated, reaching into his pocket to bring out a small cannister. “Use it if you have to, yeah?”

“...Pepper spray?”

“Well, no, that's illegal,” James admitted with a laugh. “This'll distract anyone long enough for you to get away, and if you get caught with it, you won't go to jail. It's all good.”

He squinted. “You're supposed to be a police officer.”

“That's why I'm giving you the legal stuff,” James said, pushing the cannister into his hand. “I'll wait here, okay? I won't be lurking in the shadows or anything.”

“That's not very reassuring,” he muttered.

James laughed.

It was cold outside.

Harry adjusted his hat, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat as he stepped into the building, wiping his feet on the mat before starting towards the stairs. The floors weren't covered in mud or scuffed up and the paint on the walls wasn't chipped. It was well-cared for like the outside.

He knocked on the door after checking the number twice.

And when he thought that no one was home, about to turn around and join James in the car again, the door opened.

“Tom,” he breathed, smile blossoming and reaching his eyes. “I wasn't sure if it would be you or someone beating me up for harassment.”

Tom wasn't wearing any shoes.

Of all the things he could say, Tom came out with, “You're wearing a beret.”

“Yes?” Harry said, reaching up to touch the hat. “It's cute. I like it.”

There was a lot of staring.

Harry shifted on the spot. “Can I come in?”

For a moment, he thought he was going to be rejected. There was nothing positive about Tom's expression once more; there was a furrow in his brow and he looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there rather than being happy that he'd come to visit again. Then again, Harry had been annoyingly persistent to try and get his way.

Tom always gave into him in the end.

But that had been with his other face—not the one that he had currently which had people wrapped around his little finger when he smiled. For all of those that melted at his happiness, Tom wasn't one of them any more.

It had been too long for him to still be classed in that category, hadn't it?

“Please,” he added on for good measure.

Tom sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stepped side.

Harry beamed.

The flat was like Hermione's when he'd first visited. While she'd upgraded and added more personal touches since he'd started to come over, Tom's felt cold from the lack of decorations. The flooring did make him shiver, however, when he slipped off his shoes and followed Tom through into the living room.

“You got your own place,” he said, stating the obvious.

The only response he got to that was, “Yes.”

It felt increasing more awkward than before.

“Right, so,” Harry started, taking off his coat and awkwardly putting it on a back of a chair when he hadn't seen any hooks around. When Tom didn't move to correct him, he had to assume he was doing the right thing. “...How are you?”

Tom was staring again.

“That was stupid,” he said, wincing. “I shouldn't have asked that. It's obvious you're... alive.”

Tom's gaze looked him up and down. “Like you.”

“Yeah,” he replied, fiddling with his sleeve. “Surprise?”

It was an understatement when Tom said, “You look... different.”

“I've put effort into this,” Harry stated gesturing vaguely to himself. “I was really scrawny and shit when I first woke up. I-I'd been in a coma all that time, so the doctors thought I'd be, like, not quite... there if I ever came back.”

“Coma,” Tom repeated.

“Yes,” he confirmed, shifting on the spot. “Turns out that I—I kind of have a family here? And they're on par with your parents' wealth, so they just—kept me hooked up and going. A bit morbid to think about, but that meant that I didn't actually die, so...”

Tom visibly struggled with what to say before he came out with, “I saw you die.”

Harry couldn't look at him.

His eyes felt hot as he looked down at his feet, focusing on the pattern of his socks.

“You _died_.”

“I did,” he said, his voice breaking with the last word. “If we're getting into the gritty details, I was dead for, like, three years. Imagine my surprise when I woke up in the future.”

“You're trying to joke about this,” Tom stated, sounding incredulous. And when Harry looked up, he could see that Tom was looking at him with a tight expression, one that always gave away his disapproval. “This—you can't joke about this.”

“Says who?” Harry blurted. “I think I can. I'm kind of over it? I've gone to therapy and everything.”

It wasn't phrased as a question. “You're over dying.”

He shrugged. “I didn't really feel it? It was more like I felt a bit of pain and woke up in the hospital. Hell, I kept wondering where you were because I was alone.”

Tom was back to staring.

“I look different,” Harry acknowledged, reaching a hand up to touch his own cheek. “For me, it's—it's only been two years. That's when I woke up.”

“You're a stranger,” Tom said.

He inhaled sharply. “I'm not.”

“You look it,” Tom countered. “You—I don't feel anything when I look at you.”

“That's why you fucking left me crying my eyes out on the train last time?” he snapped. When he realised that he was losing his temper and clenching a fist, he breathed out slowly, trying to calm down. “That was a real asshole move, by the way. Thanks.”

It felt like he'd been punched as Tom said, “You wouldn't take no for an answer.”

“Is that why I'm here?” he asked, boldly closing the distance until they were almost chest-to-chest. “For you to tell me to leave you alone? You know that's not going to work.”

Tom wasn't looking away. “You're stubborn.”

“And you're horrible,” he accused, the laugh that escaped him anything but sincere. “You—you _left_ me.”

Tom's voice was quiet. “You left me first.”

Harry stared. “Are you fucking serious? I _died_.”

Rather than answer that, Tom turned his head and averted his eyes, everything from the stiffness of his shoulders to his expression giving away that he was tense and uncomfortable. It wasn't the softness that had always been reserved for Harry.

“This—I was supposed to be this person from the start,” Harry said, audibly sucking in a sharp breath at the end, sounding suspiciously like he was going to start to cry. “You were the only thing I didn't want to leave behind. I went back there for _you—_ ”

Tom interrupted him to bluntly ask, “What do you want from me?”

“What do I want?” he echoed, furrowing his brow.

“We can't be like before.”

His throat felt tight. “Do you not want me here?”

Tom took a step back. “I don't know you.”

“That's bullshit!” he exclaimed, anger rearing its ugly head once more. “You—you can't be that stupid, can you? So what if I don't look the same? I'm still—I'm still _me_.”

Any delusion of a happy reunion between them was ruined with Tom meeting his gaze to inform him, “That's the problem.”

“I'm not asking to be your fucking boyfriend,” he snapped back, refusing to be the one to break eye contact. “You were my best friend. I thought you'd be happy to know that I'm alive after literally seeing me die.”

“Were,” Tom repeated. “We're not any more.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, almost knocking his beret off as he pulled at the roots. “You're so frustrating.”

“You should leave.”

“Should I?” he mocked, letting out a humourless laugh as his hand fell down to his side. “I know what you're doing. You're trying to push me away.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “Trying?”

“Why?” Harry demanded, taking a step forward. “You can't pretend that you hate me, that's not going to work.”

Tom bluntly replied, “I hate how you look.”

“That's real good for my confidence, thanks,” he retorted, glaring up at him. The height difference hadn't changed for the better in their time apart; standing up, he came up to Tom's shoulder. “Get over it and give me your number, then. You don't have to see me that way.”

“Your voice is different,” he countered.

Harry was unimpressed. “Why give me your address if you didn't want to see me?”

“To tell you to stop bothering me,” Tom replied.

“You?” he questioned, raising his eyebrows. “You're the elusive Meliora?”

Tom scoffed. “You're smart enough to figure that out already.”

“It's always good to get confirmation,” he defended, holding out his hand, facing it palm up. “Give me your phone.”

“This is pointless.” And despite his words, Tom took the device out of his pocket and placed it in his hand after unlocking it. “I don't want to know you.”

“You already know me,” Harry stubbornly replied, taking out his own phone to make sure that his number was right. And before Tom could take his back, he made sure that Tom's number was in his own to prevent Tom from deleting it when he left. “Trust me, I know how fucking weird this is. You had a month to come to terms with this by ignoring me.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “It's hard to ignore you when you keep making accounts.”

Harry's smile wasn't quite sincere. “It's my charm.”

“I don't want anything to do with you.”

“Oh, d _éjà vu,_ ” he remarked. “You used to say that to me before you started to love me, so your words aren't reliable. I'm not going to listen to you.”

The only way to describe Tom's expression was a scowl. “That's not—”

“Fuck, hang on,” Harry interrupted, hastily getting his phone back out. “I forgot to text my... friend that I'm here. He's waiting in the car for me.”

“You have friends,” Tom said. It wasn't a question.

“I told you, therapy does wonders,” he replied, pocketing the device after sending a quick message to James that he was okay. He didn't want to think what the reaction would be if James came up to see what was taking him so long. “And they're nice. I got given budget pepper spray to take up here to meet you since you might've been a murderer or whatever.”

Tom blinked.

Harry almost laughed at how lost for words he was. “This is your place, right?”

“Yes,” Tom confirmed. “I already said this is where I live.”

“I'm just making sure,” he answered, reaching up to adjust his beret and make sure his bangs weren't in his eyes. “I live in, like, the next town over, but I attend a college close by. I think it's within walking distance, honestly.”

Tom caught on quickly. “You're not coming over.”

“I'm not going to let you ignore me,” Harry rebutted, stubbornly lifting his head up and keeping eye contact. “I want to see you, you dick. I don't have to leave you behind because you know about magic now. That should solve all of our problems.”

Tom frowned. “My problem is you.”

“That you can't get enough of me,” he retorted. “You forget that I actually know you. You wouldn't be this nice if you actually hated me.”

There was nothing sincere about Tom's smile. It looked pained more than anything else when it was combined with the furrow in his brow. “You think I'm nice?”

“I know you're nice,” he corrected with confidence. “You're my best friend, dude.”

“I'm not any more,” Tom denied. “And don't call me dude.”

“Oh, speaking of, can you unblock Hermione?” Harry questioned, smile coming out more as a grimace when he realised that his two friends were feuding with each other. “I'm sorry for getting her to ask about you. She won't do it again.”

He looked at him blankly. “Who?”

Harry said the username.

“Oh, her,” Tom said with nothing but loathing in his voice. “No.”

“What, why?” he demanded.

“I don't want to.”

He sighed. “Fine, whatever. I know you'll do it eventually to make me happy.”

“It's been years,” Tom pointed out, that pained-looking smile back and not reaching his eyes. “Do you really think that I care about that any more? I'm—”

“Stop trying to push me away,” Harry interrupted, jabbing a finger into Tom's chest. “If you didn't want to see me, I wouldn't be here right now. I don't know who you're trying to fool right now.”

Tom quietly said, “You haven't changed.”

“I have,” he rebutted, letting his hand fall down to his side. “I'm—I'm happier now. I have more friends than just you to care about me.”

Tom scoffed. “Are you bragging?”

“I'm trying to say,” he started, struggling to get the right words. “This won't—our friendship will be healthier this time, I mean. I won't be shoving all of my emotional baggage on you all of the time. That's why people have therapists, right?”

There was a beat of silence.

Tom only stared at him.

“What?” he asked, touching his face. “Do I look that weird? I know it's strange that I have eyebrows now, but I really like them—”

Tom said, “You're Harry.”

“Yes?” Harry tilted his head. “That's the whole point of this conversation, isn't it? You've had time to accept that already.”

The reply he got was quiet. “You talk the same.”

“You don't type the same,” he remarked. “What's up with that? Am I suddenly going to have you texting me like a normal person?”

Tom let out a breath of amusement. “I won't be spamming you with emojis, no.”

He sounded unsure to his own ears as he asked, “You'll at least text back, right?”

Tom paused before replying with a simple, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Harry said before repeating it under his breath, smile blossoming on his lips. “That's good. I'll be testing that tomorrow. I know where you live now, so I can come and bang on the door if you don't reply within twenty-four hours.”

Tom breathed out audibly. “Why am I being given a time limit?”

“Because I want to talk to you,” he replied. “And I know that annoying you gets me my way.”

There wasn't any fondness in Tom's voice as he said, “You're always annoying.”

Harry had to look away, letting out a laugh that sounded fake to his own ears. It was understandable that they weren't reverting back to how they were; years had passed, circumstances had entirely changed, and yet, there was nothing worse than seeing Tom look at him with such a pained expression.

It was entirely his fault.

The distance wouldn't be closed between them immediately. Harry would have to push, to squeeze his way into Tom's personal space once more—

But he wasn't sure if he could do it.

“I'm—I'm going to go,” he choked out, adjusting his beret. “Thank you for meeting me.”

As if to point out that it was because of his selfishness further, Tom replied, “You wanted this.”

“Yeah,” he whispered.

James didn't ask any questions after seeing his expression when he returned.

-x-

Tom did respond to his texts.

It was astoundingly awkward between them. Small talk fell flat when it was through messages, not going beyond saying good morning and asking how each other was before trailing off, and Harry hadn't worked up the courage to go over to Tom's flat since he'd left full of self-loathing.

His therapist couldn't help much with his feelings that time.

The worst part was that Tom never contacted him first.

Hermione reminded him that it was normal to feel that way when reconnecting with old friends that hadn't been there for years. And when Harry pointed out that she wouldn't know the feeling, he'd yelped in surprise when she'd kicked his shin.

Lily and James didn't believe him about it when he told them later that evening.

Hermione pretended to be entirely innocent when she came over the following day.

“Unbelievable,” he'd muttered, glaring at her.

Childishly, she'd stuck her tongue out.

Harry gasped. “They won't believe me about that either!”

Her smile was entirely too smug.

There was a comfort he got from being with her; Harry was happy to simply sit in the room in silence when Hermione was there, and when they leaned on each other on the sofa while watching something, there was a warmth in his chest that he'd rarely felt before.

He liked touching.

He liked being praised, liked the attention he got from Lily and James, and the compliments that came his way had only his cheeks blushing as he felt shy about it all. And as he got better at receiving them, instead of standing there awkwardly and waiting for some sort of punchline, he got better about giving them back.

Hermione was equally as stunted with emotions as he was, somehow.

As much as she said she was friendly with her foster family, she rarely ever brought them up. She hadn't visited them once since they'd met, hadn't sent a card despite giving him ones for every occasion that popped up, and she'd never texted them in his presence.

He didn't pry.

She was the type to say that she was fine when she was visibly upset. Harry knew it was best to wait for her to come to him and explode in a long rant where he'd make the right noises to encourage her further—that was their dynamic.

They comforted each other.

Although Hermione didn't drink, she was invited along to wine nights. Harry told her that it was the consequence of befriending Lily and betraying him to eat cake without him _multiple_ times.

That had become somewhat of a common occurrence.

Since Harry had been welcomed in by Lily and James' friends, it was routine for Alice to visit instead of going to her home.

Hermione didn't come to every wine night, stating that she couldn't deal with drunk people that often regardless of whether Harry only got tipsy or not, so it was a surprise when another addition joined for the evening.

Harry had been in his bedroom with Hermione. The two of them were lounging on his bed as he played videos on his phone, the pillow propped up behind them.

There was a knock at his door.

“Come in,” he said.

“I—hello?” came the stuttered response in an unfamiliar voice. And when Harry looked up, it was a young-looking man that he'd never seen before. “Sorry, my—my mom sent me up here? I think she just wanted to gossip with Lily in peace, so I'm sorry for barging in here.”

“Your mom?” he questioned as Hermione paused the video. “Alice?”

“Yes. I'm Neville?” It came out sounding like a question. “Apparently she—she told you about me?”

He stared blankly before remembering that Alice had mentioned her son had finished university some time ago. Although he'd heard bits and pieces—usually gushing compliments about him—he'd never met Neville personally.

Neville was thin, tall, and looked utterly terrified at the sight of them.

“Did I interrupt?” Neville blurted.

Harry blinked. “Eh?”

“You're... in bed?” Neville replied, visibly flustered as he took a step back, making his intentions of leaving clear. “I'm sorry.”

He looked down to where they were sat on top of the duvet, their legs tangled as they'd tried to get comfortable. Other than his shirt riding up a bit, there wasn't anything indecent about them.

“We're on the bed,” Hermione corrected flatly.

“It's fine, dude,” he said, beckoning him in with a wave of his hand. “We're dressed and everything. I'm not some exhibitionist. That could've been Lily or James at the door.”

Neville looked uncomfortable as he took a step back into the room, standing there awkwardly.

“Want to sit down?” he asked.

Neville sat on the chair by the desk, shifting nervously.

“Right, so.” Harry cleared his throat. “I'm Harry. This is Hermione. We're pretty much a package deal, so—”

“Hermione?” Neville blurted.

He blinked. “Yes?”

“That's a—well, unique name,” Neville remarked, reaching up to touch his neck, a clear sign that he felt out of place.

“Unique,” Hermione repeated, unamused. “Is that all you've got to say?”

Neville stared at her, wide-eyed.

She scoffed. “Nice to see you, too. I'm leaving.”

“What?” Harry started, utterly confused as Hermione detached herself from him, grabbing her things without offering an explanation. “Hey, what? Hermione?”

She left without a word.

Harry scrambled to get up, on his way past offering Neville a simple, “Sorry, gotta go. Nice to meet you?”

Hermione had already gone out the front door by the time he'd made it down the stairs. In her haste, she'd forgotten to get her coat despite it being the middle of December.

Her car wasn't far.

Harry took her coat in his arms, shouting out that he'd be back in a bit. It wasn't a long trek to the vehicle. Hermione hadn't turned it on, instead sitting in the front seat holding onto the steering wheel with her forehead resting onto her hands, loose hair hiding her expression.

He knocked on the window.

She jumped.

His stomach twisted when he saw that she was close to crying.

“You forgot your coat,” he said as his opening as he sat down beside her, passing it over before unwinding the scarf he was wearing to wrap it around her neck. She didn't try and push him away as he fussed, brushing her hair away to notice that her eyelashes weren't wet yet. “You don't have to ditch me because someone thought we were on a date. I mean, it's not the first time it's happened.”

Her laughter was followed by a sniffle. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” he replied, kicking his shoes off to be able to pull his knees to his chest and get comfortable. “I know I'm intimidating because I'm pretty.”

She snorted. “That's not it.”

“No?” he questioned. “It can't be my sparkling personality. You always tell me I'm lame.”

“You are lame,” she insisted, wiping her eye with her palm. “You followed me out in the cold instead of staying in.”

“I prefer being with you,” he answered, honest. “And you're upset. I'd be a shitty friend if I didn't drop everything to come to you.”

Hermione sniffed. “You didn't have to.”

“It's part of our best friend pact,” he replied.

Her smile reached her eyes. “We never made a pact.”

“That's what you think,” he mused. “Liking me is the pact, Hermione. You encouraged me, so now you have to deal with it for life. It's unbreakable.”

She laughed. “You're needy.”

“Yes, that's me,” he agreed, letting out a breath of amusement as he rested his cheek against his knee, gazing at her in the limited light there was from the lamps outside. “Where do you wanna go? Our options are limited. I can't treat you because I left my wallet in my room.”

Her voice cracked. “I think I just wanna go home.”

“Cool, let's go,” Harry said, straightening up and buckling in his seatbelt. “Unless you want me to drive?”

“You're not driving my car,” she denied. “What if we get stopped? It's illegal.”

“Okay, okay,” he gave in without a fight. “But I'm staying over. I don't care if I'm there for you to have a book night or to actually do something together.”

She sighed. “You're not taking no for an answer, are you?”

“Of course not,” he replied immediately. “I told you, you can't get rid of me.”

Hermione's expression was as soft as her voice. “You're so nice.”

“Thank you for noticing,” he quipped.

“Really,” she continued, punching his arm gently. “I don't—I've never had a best friend like this. I still find it hard to believe some days.”

“Join the club,” he said.

“I'm—” Hermione cut herself off to run a hand through her hair, visibly struggling to find the right words. “I went to secondary school with him. Neville.”

“Oh,” he breathed. “Did he—”

“He bullied me,” she blurted. “Kind of.”

Harry tensed.

“It was a... peer pressure thing?” Hermione said, the words coming out as a question. “He tried to frame me for cheating on an exam once.”

His expression must've been bad because she reached over to gently place her hand on top of his.

“I thought I was over it,” she whispered. “But I—seeing him made me mad all over again. That's stupid, isn't it? It's been _years—_ ”

“It's not stupid,” he assured her. “I'll never think you're stupid.”

She ducked her head, smiling. “Thank you.”

“We're getting your favourite food,” he decided, speaking with confidence. “And we're going to light those obnoxious candles I bought for your birthday.”

“They're not obnoxious—”

“They stink up the whole room,” he argued.

Hermione laughed. “That's the whole purpose of scented candles, isn't it?”

“To smell nice, not try and knock me out,” he retorted. “If you told me they're a part of some ritual to steal my soul, I'd absolutely believe you. They're lethal.”

She tutted. “Everyone knows that rituals don't include strawberry candles, Harry.”

“It could be a lie to get my guard down,” he countered. “I'm watching you. If you reach for any knives, I'll know my life is in danger.”

“If anything, I'd sacrifice someone else's soul to make you live longer,” she pointed out. “I can't get rid of you, right?”

He beamed. “You'd kill for me?”

“That's not—”

“You'd totally kill for me,” he continued, reaching out to tap the end of her nose. “That's friendship right there. I'd commit murder for you, too.”

“That's not friendship,” Hermione denied, slapping his hand away. “That's a call for help. You need to see your therapist more.”

He winked. “It'll be friendship when I punch Neville.”

“ _No_!”

“No?” he questioned. “I'll kick him, then.”

“Don't kick him either!” she exclaimed. “It's—I want to forget it, okay?”

Harry pouted.

She narrowed her eyes. “I'm not letting you kick him.”

“What if I trip him?” he asked.

She made a disapproving noise.

“Accidentally hit him when I put my coat on?” he questioned, stretching out his arm to demonstrate how he'd do it. “I'd absolutely get away with that. I'll flutter my eyelashes and everyone will believe me.”

“Can you please stop planning to hurt someone on my behalf?” Hermione sighed. “I don't want to think about him again, okay. That's all.”

“Okay, I won't hurt him,” Harry said, leaning back against the seat dramatically. “But what if it's not physical? I'm sure I can make him cry with my words—”

“ _No_.”


	5. 05

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **previously:** harry decided to bake and got accepted into college, reunited awkwardly with tom and harassed him until they met up again, and neville made hermione mad. 
> 
> hermione: tragic backstory unlocked  
> tom: channelling edward cullen

_Harry Potter © J. K. Rowling_

The first time Harry went to visit Tom after classes, it was with a container full of cake in his hands.

He had no idea whether it was going to be considered a peace offering or make the atmosphere even more awkward than it already was. Tom had been replying to his texts for weeks, yet they hadn't made any progress. Harry had no more of an idea of what Tom did with his life than before they'd seen each other.

Tom said he was fine, leaving it at that. There was never a moment where Tom gushed about his days, telling him about who he saw or even where he went; rather, it was summed up into one word answers for the most part, leaving Harry staring at his screen wondering whether it was worth all his effort when he barely got anything in response.

Harry was the one doing most of the talking, even through text. The coldness wasn't lost on him, and that was why it had taken weeks to him to work up the courage and visit.

He couldn't be disappointed if he didn't expect much, right? That was how he'd chosen to operate his life since waking up.

Tom was home, thankfully.

There was a lot of staring.

“I brought cake?” Harry said, his words coming out as a question as he held up the container.

If it was Hermione at the door, she would've smiled and ushered him inside from the cold. Harry knew that his nose was red from walking from his college all the way there, the cold wind doing nothing to hold up his appearance that he'd checked in the mirror before leaving.

He'd fixed his hair using his phone's camera before knocking.

Tom's hand stayed on the doorknob. “Why?”

“Why?” Harry repeated.

“Why are you here?” Tom clarified, gaze dropping down to the container before meeting his eyes again. “I made it clear that I don't want to talk to you.”

“Well, I want to talk to you,” he stubbornly replied, shifting on the spot. “Are you letting me in or what? I'm freezing.”

Tom stayed still. “No.”

“Let me in,” he demanded.

And with that, Tom stepped to the side, letting out a frustrated noise as he walked back into the flat without looking over his shoulder. Harry slipped off his shoes, carefully closing the door so it wouldn't slam, and repeated his previous actions of placing his coat over the back of a chair.

He found Tom in the kitchen staring at a kettle as it boiled.

It had been obvious that the lacklustre responses through text had all been with the intention of making Harry fed up and make him give up contacting him. Tom hadn't been subtle about that.

Harry decided to break the silence by stating, “I made the cake.”

“You can't cook,” Tom replied, not looking his way.

“I couldn't,” he corrected, coming to stand beside him as he took the lid off to show the contents of the container. “I'm studying cooking now. I made this today, so I thought I'd let you try some.”

Tom's expression was hard to decipher as he looked at the slice of cake. “No.”

“It's not too sweet,” Harry said. “You might like it.”

“I don't want it.”

“I'm not leaving until you try some,” he insisted.

Tom bluntly stated, “I can kick you out.”

“You can try,” Harry replied without hesitation. “I'll flail and make a scene, so that'll be embarrassing for you. I'm sure your neighbours think you're a sweetheart, right?”

Tom went back to looking anywhere but at him, sounding ever-so-tired as he asked, “Why are you here?”

His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

As much as he'd been prepared for Tom not to be welcoming, seeing him in person again only made Harry want to cry. The coldness combined with Tom's change in appearance made him realise that he'd missed so much—and all that information was what Tom _didn't_ want to tell him.

There was a reason his responses through text were so clipped and straight to the point.

Tom was taller, slimmer to the point that his cheekbones were a prominent feature on his face, and the black clothing he'd worn every time emphasised how pale he was.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “To see you.”

Tom sounded like a broken record. “Why?”

“Do I—” Harry ran a hand through his hair, ruining his attempt of making his hair look presentable. “Do I need to have a reason?”

Tom didn't raise his voice. “I don't want to see you.”

“When have I ever listened to you?” he tried to joke, though the laugh at the end sounded entirely forced to his own ears. “Tom, I—”

“You should leave,” Tom interrupted.

“I'm not going,” he replied. “I said I'm staying, didn't I? You'll need to physically remove me.”

Tom breathed out audibly. “You don't get it.”

Harry blurted, “I want you in my life.”

It didn't come as a surprise when the response was, “I don't.”

With a sigh, he replied, “You know I'm not going to give up.”

“I wish you would.”

He didn't.

It wasn't everyday that he came over. Harry came over at least once a week, bringing over leftovers from class, stubbornly hiding his disappointment every time he arrived to see that the last container was untouched. There wasn't so much as a corner cut off for a taste.

For as much as Tom told him he shouldn't be there, he always answered the door.

It was a little concerning.

“Why are you always home?” Harry asked.

“I'm not,” Tom replied. “I go out for work during the day if I need to. You persistently annoy me when it's my time off.”

“Work?” he asked.

He didn't get an answer to that.

Tom was quiet about his personal life. Harry didn't learn about any of his friends, had no clues to his job other than being Meliora, and there was the awkward question of trying to come to terms with knowing that Tom was like him—magical.

When Harry pointed out that no one had heard of him, Tom's response was simply, “Good.”

That had caught him off-guard.

It was so—

Strange. All of it was _strange_.

Tom had been secretive before, yes, claiming that spending time with Harry was all that mattered. But Harry was older now, could acknowledge how it made him feel to be so disconnected and have no idea about the man he was in front of, and Tom's indifference only made it worse.

Wasn't he supposed to be _happy_?

Harry was back from the dead, literally. Tom had always said that Harry was the person he felt most comfortable with; that he was just as excited for the summers to be together, and the proposal to live together had only cemented that Harry was important to him.

And yet, Tom was acting like it was the worst thing to happen.

He understood that mourning happened in different ways; that Tom was most likely still suffering from seeing Harry's crumpled body after the car had hit him, yet there was none of the old fondness when they looked at each other. Tom might not have been snapping at him, but he was tired and sad, never smiling or looking like he actually wanted to be there.

Harry was imposing, he knew that.

It hurt to walk away every time with the feeling that he was going to be sick.

Yet, he kept going.

Tom let him in, either giving him that pained-looking smile that didn't reach his eyes or keeping his gaze anywhere but at him. There was space between them, no sitting side-by-side when Tom purposely sat across the room in a single armchair, keeping away from him.

He didn't get Tom anything for Christmas or his birthday; during the time off from college, he stayed at home, latching onto Lily and James to fill in his suddenly free days, and dragged Hermione out to buy the perfect presents for everyone.

Tom didn't respond to him for days.

Harry wasn't offended.

When college restarted, Harry visited him within the first week.

Distance didn't make the heart grow fonder, apparently.

Tom had opened his door and said, “You're back.”

“I am,” Harry confirmed, adjusting his hold on the strap of his bag. “And you're still here.”

“I live here,” Tom replied.

He sighed. “That's not what I meant.”

“Why should I listen to you when you never listen to me?” Tom answered back, the smile on his face anything but sincere. It was painful to look at. “If you had any brains, you would've given up.”

“Well, I was never that smart,” was his defence. “You're within walking distance to me, like, five days a week now. There's no escaping me for months on end.”

“I never escaped you,” Tom retorted.

“You kept it a big secret,” he pointed out with a shrug. “The hell is up with that, by the way? It was sketchy as hell. Looking back, I wouldn't have been surprised if you turned out to be a murderer or something. You were too young to be so shifty.”

Tom sighed. “I didn't want you to know.”

“That you're a murderer?” he joked.

“About everything else,” Tom replied, leaning his head back against the chair and closing his eyes. “It didn't matter.”

“It kind of did when I was trying to track you down,” he muttered. “Which school did you go to?”

“A private one,” was the smart answer to that.

“Why won't you tell me?” he demanded.

“It doesn't concern you,” Tom said, back to sounding like he was going to fall asleep at any moment. “I don't care. You found me now, so there's no point reliving that.”

He huffed. “You're so dramatic.”

“You're the one barging in here all the time.”

“Because you only ever give me one word answers over text!” he exclaimed, his raised voice the loudest either of them had been since their first meeting. “I can't tell what you actually want when you talk to me like that.”

Tom snorted. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“That's not happening,” he stubbornly replied, ignoring the twisting of his stomach. Tom's remarks shouldn't upset him so much any more when he'd heard it all before. “I want to be your friend again.”

Tom opened his eyes to blankly look at him. “You can't be.”

“Why?” he demanded.

It was a whisper as Tom said, “Because when I look at you, I remember my mistakes.”

Harry didn't know how to take that.

All he could do was try not to cry, curling his hands around his sleeves in an attempt to ground himself. It wasn't the moment where he could break down and let his emotions out—he usually saved that for afterwards when he was alone in his bedroom.

There was a limit to the hurtful comments that he could take.

The amount of time he spent at Tom's varied since it depended on his emotional state.

“Do you enjoy this?” Harry asked, letting his gaze drop down to his lap. “You—it's like you're trying to hurt me.”

Tom didn't hesitate. “I am.”

He swallowed thickly. “I don't understand.”

There was a beat of silence.

Harry's hands trembled. “Tell me.”

“I want you gone,” Tom admitted.

His vision blurred. “Are you not happy I'm alive?”

Tom quietly replied, “No.”

Harry left without looking back.

In the days following that, Harry didn't visit. He didn't send a single text Tom's way, too hurt when recalling their last conversation, and his mood was at an all time low. As always, he rejected the majority of his class-mates invitations to hang out after classes, preferring to spend his time elsewhere, and it hadn't occurred to him that he was making it obvious that he was upset.

Hermione said she was concerned about him.

Lily and James didn't put it into words; rather, they were doting on him, adjusting his clothing so it was on correctly when he came down, and trying their best to make him laugh.

Harry had been happy with this, before.

Until Tom had stumbled back into his life and continuously rejected him, he was happy. There had been barely anything he'd wanted; with Hermione as his closest friend, so much money he didn't know what to do with, and Lily and James constantly looking after him, he felt happier and more fulfilled than ever.

And yet, he didn't know his own wants.

Trying to befriend Tom wasn't healthy.

He wasn't the desperately lonely kid any more; he didn't distrust everyone he met, wasn't starved of affection, nor did he have that need to latch onto someone to hold a real conversation with.

He had all that.

All it was was that he'd thought he needed Tom, too.

It was February when he made his mind up, sending Tom a text saying that he was done.

There was no response.

It was left on read.

-x-

Hermione had her hands on her hips.

Harry copied her, trying to keep a straight face.

She stared.

He stared back.

She won the staring contest.

“My eyes,” he complained, blinking rapidly to combat the dryness. “What did I do so wrong to deserve this?”

“You're being ridiculous,” she accused.

He sniffed. “No.”

“You haven't showered for three days,” she pointed out.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “So? It's not like I have plans until tomorrow. I'm _fine_.”

“You're clearly not—”

“Not showering isn't a cry for help,” he interrupted with a laugh. “I'm okay, really. I haven't lost any weight and I'm sleeping well. I just didn't feel like showering because I'm lazy. Also, you said you were busy today, so now I'm really embarrassed that you're seeing my greasy hair.”

She pointed towards the door. “Go shower.”

“I was going to tonight!” he exclaimed. “You know I like to shower before bed—”

“Go,” she insisted. “I'm taking you out for dinner.”

He put a hand over his heart. “Shouldn't you be wooing me first?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not when you smell like that.”

“It's not _that_ bad,” he spluttered.

Unlike when he'd woken up in the hospital, he wasn't in a sad funk from grieving the past. It was after coming to the conclusion that Tom was better left in his memories that he brightened up, only hesitating on his way home from college before going to the train station, staring at the street he used to walk to Tom's on his way past.

He was okay.

There wasn't anything new to miss, after all. Tom scowling and being rude wasn't a fond memory that he wanted to keep.

He had better things.

Hermione was there, dragging him out to a fancy restaurant to spend the commission money she'd gotten paid that week.

“I've always wanted to come here,” she confessed, almost giddy as she smoothed out a napkin to place over her lap. “It seemed sad to go alone, so thanks for being here.”

Her hair had more attention paid to it, the scent of beauty products obvious when she turned her head, and she'd put more care into her outfit. It suited her, though it was strange seeing her looking so grown up when she tended to stick to oversized sweaters and dresses that were more for comfort than for fashion.

“You look nice,” he complimented.

She beamed. “Lily gave me some tips.”

“She laughed at my hair and redid it,” he grumbled, gesturing up to where Lily had neatly restyled it to look more presentable. “I can't get the hang of using any products.”

“You'll get there,” Hermione assured him. “Less is more.”

He haughtily raised his head. “That's not how I live my life.”

Neither of them were good actors, it turned out. When they ordered wine for their drink—to which Hermione said having one glass was fine, for once—they both tried to be fancy with how they were talking, using bigger words than they usually would and snickering at how bad the other was. It was childish, sure, but Harry wasn't embarrassed to act silly with her in public.

The food was good.

Harry ate until he was stuffed, putting a hand over his stomach and complaining.

Hermione wasn't in any better condition.

“Think you'll come back?” he questioned when they wandered outside, adjusting her scarf so it covered her neck more. “I wouldn't mind being your date again.”

She laughed. “You're my date for everything.”

“That's true,” he mused. “We still on for the barbecue?”

“That's not until next month,” she pointed out.

“And you still have time to back out,” he replied. “Neville will be there.”

“I'll ignore him,” Hermione stated without hesitation. “And you will, too. Don't think I'll be happy about you glaring at him all day.”

He beamed. “Why would I ever do that?”

“Harry—”

“I'm a good boy,” he proclaimed. “I'd never do anything to make you mad.”

“I'm mad just looking at you,” she muttered.

He fluttered his eyelashes. “Because I'm prettier than you?”

Hermione stomped off.

It was going well.

Harry's projects over the course of the year meant that he'd pass regardless of whether he scored well on his last exams. He'd studied well, performed to his best in practicals, and his essays had gotten better after Hermione had demanded that she could proofread them to check for any mistakes.

With a few months off before the next term, he was suddenly back to having more free time. Lily and James had to work still, Hermione got an influx of commissions that she had to shoo him away for since she needed her powers for a while, so Harry went back to playing online games, lounging around in his room.

It was fun.

He baked whenever he wanted, made dinner for when Lily came home some days, and got really good at the mobile games that he'd downloaded.

When it came to the summer, James proposed going to a barbecue.

It didn't click for a while that he meant the ones with other local from the forums.

“I didn't want to overwhelm you before,” James admitted, running a hand through his hair. “You'll know a lot of people there! It'll be a large gathering with some strangers, that's all.”

Harry asked, “Is the food free?”

“Yes,” James confirmed.

He gave him a thumbs up. “I'm coming.”

And that was how he'd roped Hermione into coming with him.

It wasn't a surprise that she hadn't attended before, regardless of whether she'd been asked to on the forums before. She tended to stay away from others, keeping all her work online when it was involved with others of their kind, and was only friendly with strangers when she had her customer service voice on at the book-store.

Hermione was fretting about her appearance, leaving Harry to sit in her living room, idly texting Lily to say that they'd arrive late.

“Do I look okay?” Hermione asked, coming out of her bedroom to show off her outfit.

“It looks a little too warm,” he pointed out. “It's supposed to get, like, super sunny. That's why I've got sunscreen in my bag.”

She sighed. “I'll change.”

“Okay,” he agreed.

She tried out three more outfits before being happy with it.

“You look great,” Harry assured her. “Your arms are toned now. You look like you can kick my ass.”

She snorted. “I would never.”

“Maybe you're a violent drunk,” he mused. “Is that why you never get tipsy around me? I'm getting suspicious now.”

“Of course not,” she denied, tucking some stray hairs behind her ear. “I like being in control, that's all.”

“That's why you don't let me touch the volume of the music in the car,” he remarked.

She glared. “You always turn it too loud!”

“I want to bop to a good song!” he defended.

“There will be no bopping in my car, thank you,” she managed to say with a straight face. It was only when Harry dramatically gasped that she let out a laugh. “I just—I want to have my wits about me, okay? To me, the idea of being intoxicated is scary.”

“That's cool,” he said, shrugging. “I don't particularly like it? But it tastes good, sometimes. I only have a second glass if it's something nice.”

“You just like sweet things,” Hermione replied.

He beamed. “Think there'll be cocktails today?”

“Harry, it's not even noon,” she shot back. “I'm not being your designated driver.”

“You are driving us, though,” he pointed out. “And I'm staying the night here.”

“I'll kick you out on the sofa,” she threatened.

He pouted.

The drive wasn't too far.

James had explained that it was custom to be held at someone's home. The last time it had been hosted at a rented hall, passer-bys had witnessed magical activity which had resulted in some rumours around the town for a while. No one had believed it was real when there had been no video evidence.

It made Harry wonder how some lived their daily lives with flashy powers.

The home they pulled up to already had cars filling up the street. The house was large, had music audible out from the street, and Harry could hear noise and laughter before he'd even opened the door.

Hermione hadn't taken off her seatbelt yet.

He shifted. “My thighs are sticking to the seat.”

“That's because it's leather,” was her smart reply.

“I told you, I'll fend off Neville,” he said, lifting one thigh up after the other, unsticking his skin with a grimace. “And anyone else. You point me their way and I'll make sure you never cross their paths today.”

Hermione laughed. “That sounds impossible.”

“If it gets too much, we can leave,” he offered. “I'm ready to bounce as soon as I get a plate full of food.”

“Are you thinking with your stomach?” she demanded.

His smile reached his eyes. “I'm thinking I should take what I can from rich people.”

“You're rich,” she said.

“I'm mooching off the rich,” he corrected. “Have you seen me earn a single pound? No.”

She huffed. “I had to pay you for winning a bet last month.”

“I won that fair and square, so it doesn't count,” he replied.

“That makes no sense.”

He winked. “It doesn't have to, I'm pretty.”

Hermione didn't look so tense any more.

“I'll be here,” he assured her, reaching out to pat her shoulder. “I'll be that annoying pest by your side that _never_ leaves.”

She looked at him fondly. “You're an idiot.”

He beamed. “Your idiot.”

“It's not that I'm scared,” Hermione started, finally undoing her seatbelt carefully. “If there's anyone that I recognise, I doubt they'll be that... immature any more. I shouldn't hold grudges this long.”

“I still have a grudge against a dude that poured juice on me once,” Harry announced. “I checked his Instagram and he's really ugly now, so I feel vindicated.”

She snorted. “That wasn't your doing.”

“I'd like to think it's karma,” he mused.

“Well, I hope we run into some ugly people today,” she remarked. “That'll cheer me up.”

“You're prettier than all of them,” he assured her.

Hermione huffed. “You don't have to lie to me.”

“You're cute,” he insisted, nodding his head along with his words. “If anyone tells you otherwise, I'll fight them.”

“Stop trying to solve your problems with your fists!” she exclaimed.

He laughed. “If that was the case, I would've punched Tom.”

Hermione's smile dimmed. “Do you think he'll be here?”

“Oh, I doubt that,” he said. “Meliora's identity supposed to be a secret, right? He's not going to waltz in there to get some free food. That's a hilariously dumb idea.”

She shrugged. “Maybe he'll be here to network.”

“Well, if he is, I'm not going to punch him,” Harry replied, clenching a hand into a fist. “I'll ignore him. I'm over it, okay?”

She didn't look convinced.

“Today's about you,” he continued on, bowing his head as he dramatically gestured to her. “I'm your loyal companion that'll never leave your side, remember? I've only got eyes for you.”

“You really are a dog,” she said with a laugh.

He winked. “Woof.”

“Yeah, that's gross,” Hermione stated, leaning away from him. “Never do that again, please.”

“What if I'm into pet-play?” he questioned. “I need to get it right. Give me tips to improve.”

She flicked the end of his nose.

Harry pouted. “Mean.”

“For my sanity, I don't need to know about your possible kinks,” she all but begged, shaking her head. “How did I end up with you?”

“You sold your soul to be my friend,” he quipped.

Hermione breathed out audibly. “I already did that long before you.”

“Oh, you're soulless?” he questioned, raising his eyebrows. “I couldn't tell.”

“Do you think you'd have a soul left after making a deal with a demon?” she responded, smile not meeting her eyes. There was a quiet quality to her voice, so hushed and vulnerable all at once. “You haven't witnessed it, but there's a stigma against first generations. It was bad in school.”

That was a lot to take in at once.

Before he could process it all, he blurted out, “What?”

Hermione shifted in her seat.

“First generation?” he questioned, furrowing his brow.

“I made a deal with a demon,” she admitted, dropping her gaze down to her lap where she was fiddling with her hands. “It's—it's the technical term for it, I suppose.”

Harry had never claimed to be eloquent. “What?”

“It's not a secret in the schools when a new student is a first gen,” she remarked, not lifting her head up. “It's why they were so—so aggressive? Of course, children are always competitive, so some consider it a pride thing for the demon deal to be so far back in their families. It's them bragging that they haven't had to sacrifice and suffer unlike those that are more... recent.”

All he got out of that was, “You made a deal.”

“I did,” Hermione confirmed, her voice cracking. “I—I killed my parents.”

He quietly pointed out, “But they died when you were a kid.”

“They did,” she agreed. “I read the wrong book.”

He swallowed. “Oh.”

“The soulless thing was a joke,” Hermione said, tucking her hair behind her ear with a shaky hand. “But it's a common insult. If you—if you hear anyone say that to me today, I don't want you to do anything.”

He frowned. “Lily and James didn't say anything about this.”

She shrugged.

“I've never even heard of a first gen before?” It came out sounding like a question. “Like, that seems important—”

“It only really matters in schools,” she replied, sounding so detached to the conversation compared to her shaky hands. “It's childish and completely ridiculous. I haven't been questioned once about it since graduating.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “I'll be ready to shove some breadsticks in my bag and leave at any moment.”

Hermione laughed. “You think they'll have breadsticks?”

“I don't know,” he said, almost wistfully. “I've never been to anyone else's barbecue. But Lily likes to have them at home, so.”

“If not, we'll go buy some,” she proposed.

Harry smiled widely. “This is why I like you.”

There wasn't any trouble.

A lot of Lily and James' friends were there, excitedly greeting him and Hermione, small talk not that awkward when they'd visited the home every now and then. Neville offered Hermione a pained-looking smile and purposely stayed away from her, making it horribly obvious that he was avoiding her.

Lily and James knew the truth, so they'd taken it upon themselves to wrap an arm around Hermione's shoulder and drag her off somewhere to distract her whenever it was too obvious. It was a nice gesture, though a little too forced.

Hermione wasn't shy about admitting how much she liked them.

Harry shared the same feelings.

-x-

Harry's twenty-third birthday started with a surprise.

Tom had text him while he was asleep, wishing him a happy birthday.

Harry left it on read like Tom had to him.

They hadn't seen each other since February, hadn't so much of exchanged a simple message, yet Tom thought it was appropriate to text him at five in the morning on his _birthday_?

He hated that all he could wonder was why Tom was up at that time.

Unlike the previous years, he had class-mates wishing him happy birthday, too. Harry hadn't expected that, so he'd returned to his phone hours later after Hermione had arrived, surprised by all the notifications.

Later, when he'd had too much food and was dozing off in bed, his phone vibrated yet again.

It wasn't a class-mate that time.

Tom had text him, asking whether he'd had a good day.

It didn't make sense.

They'd ignored each other for five months. Tom had done nothing but push him away and make hurtful comments, and yet—

Harry turned his phone on silent, rolling over.

Tom text him the following morning, asking him what he had planned.

It was at five in the morning again.

Harry had to wonder if that was the normal time for him to wake up. For all the time he'd forced into Tom's apartment, he didn't know him. All he knew was his outstanding reputation as Meliora that surely supplied him enough money to get by without doing anything else, though Tom did venture out for work during the day.

He ignored him again.

Tom text him in the morning again.

Harry was almost frustrated to tears.

“Your ex is annoying,” was Hermione's response.

He stared at her blankly.

“What?” she asked.

Harry blurted, “He's my ex?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Isn't he?”

“I... don't know?” he questioned, furrowing his brow. “I mean, I died before our first date? Unless you count kissing as, like, sealing the deal or something. I don't know how relationships work.”

She frowned. “Me neither.”

“Oh.”

“He's still annoying,” she remarked.

He laughed. “That's an understatement.”

“See how long he keeps it up for, I guess,” Hermione suggested. “You deserve someone that actually cares about you. From everything you've said, he didn't want you there.”

“Yes, yes, I deserve nice things,” he said, nodding his head. “I'm not going to reply to him.”

That stubbornness started to wane after two weeks of messages. Unlike on Harry's birthday, Tom only sent a message in the morning, hours before Harry woke up. It was the same two words sent on a loop, filling up the chat box that had always used to be full of Harry trying to reconnect.

He didn't understand.

It only made him sad to think about it.

When he'd decided to cut Tom off for his own happiness, coming to terms that the past couldn't be recreated for them, why was Tom the one approaching him?

It made him angry.

All that effort he'd put in, turning up at Tom's door with baked goods that were left untouched—

A few good morning messages weren't going to make up for that.

At least, that's what he thought until the new term started for his second—and final—year at college. Harry had caught up with his class-mates, taking it easy for the first day since assignments weren't being given out, and he'd decided to walk to the train station with a few others when he stopped in his tracks by the entrance.

There was no mistaking who that was.

And unlike when Harry had first seen him outside, there was no blond hair.

Tom wasn't using his powers.

“Harry?” his class-mate called.

With that, he walked past without looking Tom in the eye. His laughs weren't very sincere, he could barely respond to their quips at first, and every step felt clumsy like he wasn't in his own body, but he made it to the train station in one piece.

It was supposed to be a one time thing.

Yet, like the morning messages, Tom was there everyday.

Harry only went to college four days a week.

He wasn't going to take pity on Tom and tell him that, though. Although Tom stared at him if they happened to walk past each other, there was no attempt to talk to him, no trying to grab onto him to make him stay and listen to him.

Harry felt on edge every time classes ended.

It wasn't a good feeling.

Hermione tried to insist on driving to pick him up—

While Lily and James offered to buy him his own car. He'd already gotten the licence, but getting a vehicle had seemed like a waste when he barely went anywhere.

He wanted to solve his own problems.

So, that was how weeks later he woke up to the normal morning message, he pressed the call button.

He closed his eyes, resting the phone against his ear as he heard it ring.

Tom answered without saying anything.

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. “You answered.”

“I did,” Tom confirmed. “Are you ill?”

“I just woke up,” he admitted, feeling strangely out of place.

There was a beat of silence.

It was unbelievably awkward.

Harry had had so many fantasies of telling Tom to fuck off; to shout and scream, or make a off-handed remark that would hurt him, yet when it came time for that, all of those words died on his tongue.

Tom's voice was quiet. “Won't you be late for classes?”

“I have a day off today,” he said.

“Oh.”

He shifted, pressing his cheek further into the pillow to get comfortable. “Why are you doing this?”

“You'll have to be more specific,” Tom replied.

“I didn't think you listened when I told you about my day,” Harry murmured, his closed eyes doing nothing to stop them from feeling dry as he was hit with a rush of emotions. “But you—you keep coming to my college.”

Tom softly said, “I listen to you.”

He didn't know how to feel about that. “I don't believe you.”

The answer to that was so quiet that it was barely-there. “You don't have to.”

“Why haven't you tried to talk to me?” Harry asked. “In person.”

“I wanted to see you,” Tom confessed in a whisper.

He took in a ragged breath. “Why?”

“I'm selfish.”

It didn't make him happy to hear those words.

“You were horrible to me,” he weakly replied, voice lacking any of the heat that he'd wanted. Rather than coming across mad, he sounded tired. “You—you were so fucking rude, Tom. I don't deserve that.”

The last thing he expected was for Tom to say, “It was for the best.”

“Why come see me, then?” he questioned. “You got what you wanted. I was staying away.”

The wording changed that time. “I needed to see you.”

Harry's voice cracked. “Why?”

“I realised that I wouldn't have any way of knowing if you died,” Tom admitted. “And it scared me.”

He let out a humourless laugh. “That's it? You thought I'd die because you chased me out? Give me some credit, Tom. I got my life together before I even met you again.”

“I know,” Tom said, breathing out audibly. “You've got everything together.”

His throat felt tight. “I'm fine without you.”

“I'm not.”

And what was he supposed to do with _that_?

Harry squeezed his eyes shut further, trying to stop the building tears. “That's not my problem. You're—you wanted nothing to do with me, okay? I'm not—”

It wasn't a question as Tom said, “You're happy.”

“What does it matter to you?” he spat out, defensive. “You can't be so fucking distant and then come out saying that you care about me! It doesn't work that way.”

While Harry was in tears, Tom's voice didn't have a single quiver to it. “I've always cared about you.”

“Not any more,” Harry denied. “You don't treat someone you like like that.”

Tom insisted, “You don't understand.”

“As you've said so many times,” he replied with a scoff. “What am I supposed to understand, then? You're so fucking confusing, Tom. You can't ignore me then start turning up at my college like a stalker because you think I might be dead. There's better ways to handle that.”

“I wanted to see you,” he repeated.

He snorted. “Leaving your messages on read means that I've seen them, you do know that, right?”

Tom's voice was quiet as he said, “I never thought you'd stop coming.”

Harry was affronted. “You think I'd put up with all your shit?”

“Harry—”

“No,” he interrupted, talking louder as he sat up abruptly, running a hand through his messy hair and grabbing at the roots for a sense of stability. “I'm not a masochist or whatever. I deserve better than how you treated me.”

“I had to,” he said.

“Oh, you _had_ to?” Harry questioned sarcastically. “That totally makes it all okay then, sorry for misunderstanding! Feel free to tell me to fuck off all the time, I swear it won't hurt my feelings at all.”

“You weren't supposed to come back.”

“Technically, you're the one crawling back to me,” he pointed out.

Tom didn't raise his voice. “You died.”

“Yeah, and I came back, get over it already!” Harry exclaimed, exasperated. “It's almost been a year since we met again, dude! And you've ignored me for a good half of that, so what's the problem?”

“How am I supposed to be around you when I remember you dying on loop in my head?” Tom demanded.

“Then, don't,” he suggested. “You're the one that's contacting me. Fuck off.”

Tom responded instantly with, “I can't handle that.”

“Why is that my problem?” Harry asked, nothing sincere about it. “You made the decision to be a dick instead of trying to get to know me again. Hell, I don't even know you any more. It just took me a while to come to terms with that.”

“You don't want to get to know me.”

“Why are you making the decisions for me?” he questioned, talking loudly. “You're—it's _my_ choice. And now I'm choosing to try and cut ties with you, so stop it. I'll report you to the police.”

Tom's laugh was forced. “It won't work.”

“I live with a police officer,” he reminded him.

“Unless you're there, it won't matter,” Tom said.

He frowned. “Why?”

“Why have you never asked about my magic?” came Tom's response.

“I doubt you'd tell me?” Harry shot back. “Dude, you wouldn't even tell me how many sugars you like in your coffee. I babbled about my life while you glared at me from across the room, that's all that happened between us.”

“You used it on me.”

“I used what on you?” he questioned.

“My magic,” Tom clarified, nothing in his tone giving away his feelings. “Why do you think I answered you honestly sometimes?”

“...What?”

“I can control others,” Tom admitted. “Regardless of whether I make eye contact with them, unlike you. As long as I'm visible, it works.”

“I'm sorry, _what_?” he blurted. “I thought you could, like, shapeshift or something.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Tom scolded.

“Why is that ridiculous?” he demanded. “I know someone that can read minds! It's not _that_ far-fetched.”

There was an awkward pause.

Then, Harry had to awkwardly ask, “What do you mean I used it on you? That's not—I don't do that.”

“You did,” Tom confirmed. “More than once.”

“But—that's impossible,” he denied, spreading his fingers to look down at his open hand. “I haven't done that with anyone else's.”

“Have you tried?” Tom questioned.

“How stupid do you think I am?” Harry demanded. “I think I would've noticed, thanks.”

“Are you _sure_?” Tom persisted. “You can be oblivious sometimes.”

“Don't act like you know me any more,” he grumbled, offended. “This doesn't change anything between us, by the way. I don't get what you're doing, but stop it.”

Tom quietly replied, “I'm letting you know me.”

“Great, I know you used your creepy powers to masquerade as my dead corpse,” he bluntly said. “That's real good to know, thank you.”

Tom tried to say, “That's not—”

“Don't talk to me,” Harry said before hanging up.

-x-

Begrudgingly, Harry had to admit that Tom had a point.

It took hours to figure it out.

The easiest magic to work with was Hermione's. Unlike Lily's which also activated upon touch, it didn't rely on him having almost dead plants around the house—which was already rare enough as it was.

Hermione always perked up when she was presented with a challenge.

He put his hand on the book, frowning.

“Nothing,” he stated.

“Strange,” she remarked, sitting beside him so they were almost shoulder-to-shoulder. “Try feeling the pages? Not that there's any difference for me.”

“Okay, show off,” he muttered, doing as she instructed.

There was no change.

Hermione got more books down from the shelves, presenting them slowly to him before asking about the plots. All he could give was the brief summaries that she'd given when reading them, but him parroting back her complaints wasn't appreciated, apparently.

“This is stupid,” he said, stretching his arms out. “I'm dying of boredom.”

“You said you're never bored with me,” Hermione pointed out. “Are you a liar now, Harry? Is that it?”

“I can only research for so long!” he exclaimed, gesturing to the neat piles of books on the floor. Hermione was meticulous with her cleaning, preferring everything to be neat and organised all of the time. “How can you deal with all this? I want to die just from seeing all these books.”

She huffed. “These are my fun books!”

“Fun is that Bigfoot erotica novel I got you for your birthday—”

She kicked him.

Harry laughed. “I'm starting to think bribing you into the gym is my biggest mistake. I'm going to have bruises from your abuse for days.”

“Abuse isn't something to joke about,” she chastised.

He held his hands up in a sign of surrender. “My bad.”

“Try this one,” she demanded, shoving another book his way.

“It's not going to work,” Harry said, accepting it with a sigh.

He was partially right about that.

It didn't work until he sneezed, more caught off-guard by the sudden influx of information than the fact that he hadn't moved to cover his nose.

Hermione fretted, passing a box of tissues his way.

Harry told her some plot points.

She stared.

He said some more.

And when she passed another book to him, it didn't have the same effect.

Hermione decided that it was because he didn't know how to use his powers—which was fair. It wasn't as though he'd been actively practising since realising that he blocked everyone else's magic; it was a passive thing that was always there, so he'd been content to let it be.

Realising that he could use their power was a different matter.

“Do I steal it?” he questioned, bewildered.

“Borrowed, maybe,” Hermione mused. “You do give it back after two hours.”

“What if I'm with someone all the time?” he asked. “That's stealing, isn't it? I'd always have it.”

She laughed. “You're ridiculous.”

“It's a serious question!” he exclaimed, running his hand through his hair. “This—this means that Tom's not full of shit, then.”

“Oh, he is,” she corrected. “It doesn't matter that he's right about this. It doesn't make up for what he did to you.”

He nodded happily. “Yeah, fuck him.”

“Please, don't.” Hermione sighed. “That's what we're trying to avoid.”

He choked on his laughter. “ _Hermione_!”

She raised her eyebrows. “Am I wrong?”

His face felt hot. “I've only kissed him!”

With a smile, she replied, “Let's keep it that way.”

His shoulders shook with his laughter.

They tried to replicate the sneeze to make it again happen. After Harry had touched a different book and failed to have the power work, regardless of whether he stared really hard at it, Hermione went over to the kitchen and fetched some pepper for him to sniff.

“You can't be serious,” he said.

She shook the little shaker. “It's for science.”

“This is ridiculous,” he proclaimed, taking the shaker with a grimace. “And this is going to make me cry, isn't it? It's like the cinnamon challenge all over again.”

“Cinnamon would only make you choke,” Hermione helpfully informed him.

“Wow, thank you for telling me,” he replied blankly. “You're so helpful.”

She beamed. “Anything for you.”

“How about let's _not_ do this?” he proposed.

“You want to learn more about this, don't you?” Hermione encouraged, sitting down beside him with expectations all over her expression. There was no disappointing her when she was bright-eyed and eager to get to the bottom of something, and he'd hate to be the one to upset her. “Think of how easy it would be to touch a cookbook and remember all the recipes. You'd pass those challenges where you can't check the instructions with ease.”

He insisted, “That's called cheating.”

“Demons granted you this for a reason,” she replied without hesitation, reaching out and tapping the end of his nose. “And it's to snort pepper right now, so get to it.”

“Should I make a line and pretend it's cocaine?” he mused.

“...No.”

He touched his chin thoughtfully. “I think the demons would like that.”

“You don't want to please the demons,” Hermione informed him with a disapproving frown. “That's a terrible idea.”

“It was a joke!” he defended.

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes?” It came out sounding like a question. “I'm not, like, planning to offer them some human sacrifices in hopes that they'll boost my power. That's the real terrible idea.”

“Lily and James told you about that?” Hermione asked.

“What?” Harry blurted. And when he saw her raise her eyebrows, he asked, “Wait, that's a thing? Have people done that? For real?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, tilting her head. “It would make sense, don't you think? We get these powers in the first place by sacrificing what we love most. There have been many attempts to have a... re-do, let's say, if the original power wasn't what they wanted.”

It was a topic that they'd skirted around ever since Hermione had made her confession. There was so much he wanted to ask, but it was all inappropriate. As much as she liked him, he wasn't going to pressure her to tell him everything.

It wasn't worth making her upset.

Harry cared more about her well-being than knowing a little bit of her backstory. It wasn't important in the grand scheme of things.

“It's all random, right?” Harry asked, holding the shaker in two hands on his lap. “What you get?”

“Completely,” she confirmed, tucking some stray hairs behind her ear. “I was under the impression I was reading a fairytale in another language.”

He furrowed his brow. “A fairytale?”

“The cover of the book was pretty,” she said, smile not reaching her eyes. “I remember that much.”

Hermione had been so young when it had happened; tiny and vulnerable, and yet, he couldn't see her being the reason that two grown adults had died.

Harry tried to pick his words carefully. “You didn't kill your parents.”

“Maybe not,” she said, pulling one of her sleeves down over her hand. “We can argue over it for hours, but it will never get rid of the fact that I accidentally traded their lives for magical powers because I read a passage from a book.”

“A passage?” he asked. “Like, a paragraph?”

“That's all it takes, Harry.” Her smile looked pained, not at all suitable for her usually happy face. “A few words and you trade away what you love.”

“That's... incredibly dangerous,” he lamely said.

“It is,” she agreed. “It's why clients have me checking books to see if there's any summoning phrases shoved in there. You'd be surprised how sneaky some people can be.”

He frowned. “Does that mean someone's... printing them?”

“They turn up everywhere, so I can't give you an answer for sure,” Hermione replied, shifting and making it so their knees were touching. “It can be something as simple as a quote that's there for display then the translation is completely different.”

All he could say to that was, “That's fucked up.”

“Incredibly so,” she said, letting out an audible breath. “A lot of people want to stop the spread, while others wish to hoard the texts and sell them at the highest price.”

“If I read it, would anything happen?” he asked.

“No,” she denied. “There will be no reaction whatsoever for you.”

“Then, how would I... know?” he questioned, troubled at the thought. “Would I even realise what it is?”

“No, you wouldn't,” Hermione said, putting a hand gently on his knee. “You'd be clueless and continue on like nothing had happened. And if you gave that book out to someone... normal—well, you know what follows if they say it aloud.”

It was suddenly making more sense why she'd started to revolve her life around books.

“Only books?” he asked. “What if I saw the phrase online and said it?”

“I can't say for certain,” Hermione replied with a shrug. “There's been no confirmed cases of that happening. I was the only first generation when I was in school, though there have been a few popping up on the forum and admitting that they'd read some text aloud that they had a physical version of.”

“That's so fucked,” he blurted.

It was proof that she wasn't too upset when she replied, “Like your vocabulary.”

Harry huffed. “I like swearing.”

“How old are you?” she questioned.

“Let's not get into that,” he suggested. “It's a slippery slope.”

“Will this slope end with you snorting pepper?” Hermione asked, gesturing to the shaker in her hands. “Don't think I'll let you get away with this. You need to prove me right.”

With a sigh, Harry held his hand out. “Fine, pass me another book to absorb as I cry.”

The shock of the sneeze worked once more, somehow.

He was crying afterwards, trying to blow the pepper out of his nose as Hermione thrust more tissues into his hands.

“I'm not doing that again,” he complained, teary-eyed as he glared at her.

Hermione laughed. “At least we know it wasn't a fluke.”

“It wasn't worth it at all,” he lamented, flopping back against the sofa and stuffing the tissue up his nose. “I'll call you up to experiment when I get a cold. That'll be killing two birds with one stone.”

“...You think _that's_ a good idea?”

He smiled. “Well, I'll be bored. I need something to entertain me.”

Hermione stared. “I'm not letting you sneeze on any of my books.”

He pretended to shoot her. “I'll borrow some of James' boring novels.”

With the revelation that he really could do more than block someone's magic while he was around, Harry's life didn't change that much. He had no motivation to master it and replicate anyone's he met; it wouldn't give him happiness, so he was happy to learn it slowly as it came around.

Of course, he didn't tell Tom that he was right.

Other than the phone call, Harry hadn't contacted him once. Tom continued to text him in the mornings—at that infuriatingly early hour that made Harry want to know _why_ he was up—and turn up at his college, yet there was no change between them.

Harry wasn't about to go back on what he thought was best.

Tom didn't make him happy any more.

He didn't have time for someone that didn't understanding the meaning of the word no, couldn't respect boundaries, and was going as far as to turn up where he wasn't wanted.

It was borderline inappropriate, enough so for James to offer to arrest Tom for stalking if Harry wished. Sure, no crime would've been able to be slapped onto him, but James insisted it was the principle of being arrested that would hopefully scare him.

Harry didn't think that it needed to be that extreme.

Tom had always been stubborn and got what he wanted.

Harry was determined to be different.

“There's a chance you don't know how to work your new power,” Hermione theorised, taking Harry's hand into her own and turning it around to inspect his palm. “Maybe, you... you could be able to turn it on and off? That could be it.”

He let out a laugh. “And I turn it on by sneezing?”

“You let your guard down with that,” she pointed out. “That could be the key to making it work—getting you to relax.”

“I'm never relaxed with Tom,” Harry said, running his free hand through his hair. “But he says I've used it around him to—to make him do what I want.”

“You don't know he's telling the full truth there,” she said, clasping his hand with her own and giving it a comforting squeeze. “We don't understand anything about him, remember? You don't need to feel bad about something you don't know.”

He frowned. “It sounds like I forced him into things.”

“He's stalking you.”

“He's _not_ ,” he insisted. “He's... checking to see if I'm alive?”

She bluntly replied, “We both know that's stupid.”

He winced. “Yeah.”

“Talk to him,” she suggested. “Because having you leave college on edge isn't doing you any good.”

He tried to say, “I'm not _that_ on edge—”

“Harry, you text me to say you saw him through the window the other day,” Hermione reminded him. “And you wanted me to call you so you wouldn't have the excuse of no class-mates beside you meaning you'd have to talk to him.”

He huffed. “I didn't want to be rude.”

“He's rude,” she said.

“Okay, fine!” Harry exclaimed, exasperated. “I'll tell him to fuck off properly, yeah?”

She squeezed his hand again. “You've got this.”

“I really don't,” he muttered. “I'll do it later.”

“You better,” Hermione threatened, pointing at her own eyes before at him, trying not to smile the whole time. “Or I'll do something you'll hate.”

“I hate everything about you,” he lied.

She beamed.

There wasn't a concrete plan.

Harry decided that calling again would be better than seeing Tom in person and bursting out in tears. The option of talking to him after college was out; he was tired after classes and didn't want to be held up with emotional problems since he'd be even more worn out by the time he made it home late in the evening.

So, when he was cosied up in bed, Harry pulled up the chat on his phone where Tom was still consistently sending him good morning messages.

He pressed call.

It didn't go to voicemail.

“Harry,” was the greeting he got.

“Hi,” he replied, voice coming out as a whisper. “You're still up?”

“I had coffee,” Tom replied, sounding bored. “It was a bad choice.”

“Caffeine keeps you up?” he questioned.

“It does,” Tom confirmed, revealing that tiny little detail of information that he'd never been willing to before.

“It's sugar that does it for me,” Harry admitted, the words coming out before he could think better of them. “I can have coffee fine, but any amount of sugar? I'm up and staring at the wall instead of trying to sleep for _hours_. It took me a while to realise what was going on.”

“Are your taste buds different?” Tom asked.

He was caught off-guard. “What?”

“Your body is different,” was the simple explanation to that. “That means that what you used to like might not be the case now.”

There was a lump in his throat.

“I already said this,” Harry said, squeezing his eyes shut. “When you were ignoring me.”

There was no reply.

It was the reminder that he needed about why he'd called up. The purpose hadn't been to reminisce about the past and compare the differences; he'd done that all by himself.

“I don't want you turning up at my college,” he bluntly stated.

Tom was silent.

“It's weird,” he continued on, rolling over and pressing his cheek against the pillow. “I'll reply to your message in the morning, okay? That should be reassurance enough that I'm not, like, dead in a ditch or anything.”

Tom said, “It could be someone else.”

“You're kidding me.”

It wasn't a suggestion when Tom proposed, “Call me.”

“No, thanks,” Harry swiftly rejected. “I hate hearing your voice.”

“No, you don't,” Tom denied, not upset by the response in the slightest. “It's either that or sending me a picture.”

“What? Is this, like, some game of peekaboo?” he questioned, incredulous. “Are you forgetting my face when I cover it? Because that sounds more like a you problem.”

Tom let out an audible breath. “You're not letting me see you.”

“Yeah, because until a while ago, you didn't want to see me,” he reminded him bitterly. “And now you're changing your tune because you've decided you miss me. I think you need to see a therapist.”

Tom proposed, “I won't go to your college if you send me a picture each morning.”

“Every morning?” Harry questioned with a laugh. “You're being a bit too much there. I can barely remember to take a selfie when I look nice. Why would I always send one to you when I have drool on my face?”

“Because I want to see it.”

“Yeah, that's not a good reason,” he shot down. “And you don't deserve it. What the hell, dude?”

“Don't call me dude,” Tom muttered.

“Don't be so entitled,” he shot back. “All of this only benefits you. You get pictures and I have to bribe you off? That doesn't solve the problem at all.”

There was a brief pause before Tom replied, “I'll unblock your friend.”

He pursed his lips.

Tom said Hermione's username.

“Fine,” he gave in. “But you have to promise that you'll stick to this. I don't want you turning up after my classes are over any more. You have better things to do than watch my ass walk away.”

“I'm not watching your ass, Harry,” Tom replied.

“Well, you're not any more,” he agreed.

“That's—”

Harry hung up.


End file.
